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 1899 
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 L161— O-1096
 
 MIDDLEMARCH.
 
 Famesiaii Palace, Rome. 
 Photo-Etching. — From a Photograph.
 
 MIDDLEMARCH 
 
 A STUDY OF PRO- 
 VINCIAL LIFE 
 
 VOLUME 1. 
 
 By 
 
 George Eliot 
 
 THE HAWARDEN PRESS 
 MD C C CXCIX
 
 Edition de Luxe 
 
 THE HAWARDEN PRESS. 
 
 This edition is limited to Five Hundred numbered 
 copies, of which this is 
 
 No..../.fe./
 
 ^ 
 
 I f f 7 
 
 TO 
 
 3p^ Dear J^u0banD 
 
 GEORGE HEISTEY LEWES, 
 
 IN THIS NUTETEENTH TEAB OF OUR 
 BLESSED UNION.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Preltjde 1 
 
 BOOK 
 
 I. Miss Brooke 3 
 
 II. Old and Young 163 
 
 III. Waiting for Death 313
 
 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 Vol. I. 
 
 Page 
 Tarnesian Palace, Rome Frontispiece 
 
 Portrait of Dorothea 7 
 
 Mr. Casaubon and Dorothea 64 
 
 Fred Vincy and Peter Peatherstoxe 147
 
 PRELUDE. 
 
 Who that cares mucla to know the history of man, 
 and how the mysterious mixture hehaves 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 walking forth one morning hand-in-hand 
 with her still smaller brother, to go and seek 
 martyrdom in the country of the Moors ? Out they 
 toddled from rugged Avila, wide-eyed and helpless- 
 looking as two fawns, but with human hearts, 
 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- 
 pilgrimage was a fit beginning. Theresa's passion- 
 ate, ideal nature demanded an epic life : what were 
 many-volumed romances of chivalry 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 raptu- 
 rous 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 last of her kind. 
 Many Theresas have been born who found for 
 themselves no epic life wherein there was a con-
 
 2 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 stant 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 ob- 
 livion. With dim 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 inconsistency and formless- 
 ness ; 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 woman- 
 hood ; so that the one was disapproved as extrava- 
 gance, 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 the natures of 
 women : if there were one level of feminine incom- 
 petence as strict as the ability to count three and 
 no more, the social lot of women might be treated 
 with scientific certitude. Meanwhile the indefi- 
 niteness remains, and the limits of variation are 
 really much wider than any one would 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 
 ducklings in the brown pond, and never finds the 
 living stream 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 
 centring in some long-recognizable deed.
 
 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 BOOK I. 
 
 MISS BEOOKE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Since I can do no good because a woman, 
 Reach constantly at something that is near it. 
 
 The Maid's Tragedy : Beaumont and Fletcher. 
 
 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 weai 
 sleeves not less bare of style than those in which 
 the Blessed Virgin appeared to Italian painters ; 
 and her profile as well as her stature and bearing 
 seemed to gain the more dignity from her plain 
 garments, which by the side of provincial fashion 
 gave her the 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 trimmings ; and it was only to close obser- 
 vers that her dress differed from her sister's, and
 
 4 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 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 being 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 yard-measuring or parcel-tying 
 forefathers, — anything lower than an admiral or a 
 clergyman ; and there was even an ancestor dis- 
 cernible as a Puritan gentleman who served under 
 Cromwell, but afterwards conformed, and managed 
 to come out of all political troubles as the proprie- 
 tor of a respectable family estate. Young women 
 of such birth, living in a quiet country-house, 
 and attending a village church hardly larger than 
 a parlour, naturally regarded frippery as the am- 
 bition of a huckster's daughter. Then there was 
 well-bred economy, whicli in those days made 
 show in dress 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 account for plain dress, quite apart from 
 religious feeling; but in Miss Brooke's case reli- 
 gion alone would have determined it ; and Celia 
 mildly acquiesced in all her sister's sentiments, 
 only infusing them with that common-sense which 
 is able to accept momentous doctrines without any 
 eccentric agitation. Dorothea knew many passages 
 of Pascal's Pensees and of Jeremy Taylor by heart; 
 and to her the destinies of mankind, seen by the 
 light of Christianity, made the solicitudes of femi- 
 nine fashion appear an occupation for Bedlam. 
 She could not reconcile the anxieties of a spiritual 
 life involving eternal consequences, with a keen
 
 MISS BROOKE. 5 
 
 interest in gimp and artificial protrusions of dra- 
 pery. Her mind was theoretic, and yearned by 
 its nature after some lofty conception of the world 
 which might frankly include the parish of Tipton 
 and her own rule of conduct there ; she was en- 
 amoured of intensity and greatness, and rash in 
 embracing whatever seemed to her to have those 
 aspects ; likely to seek martyrdom, to make retrac- 
 tations, and then to incur martyrdom after all in 
 a (][uarter 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 canine affection. With 
 all this, 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 promis- 
 cuous, 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 opin- 
 ions, 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 predict 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 
 carrying them out. For the most glutinously in- 
 definite minds enclose some hard grains of habit', 
 and a man has been seen lax about all his own
 
 6 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 interests except the retention of his snuff-box, con- 
 cerning which he was watchful, suspicious, and 
 greedy of clutch. 
 
 In Mr. Brooke the hereditary strain of Puritan 
 energy was clearly in abeyance ; but in his niece 
 Dorothea it glowed alike through faults and vir- 
 tues, turning sometimes into impatience of her 
 uncle !s talk or his way of " letting things be " on 
 his estate, and making 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 par- 
 ents, 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 discuss- 
 ing Mr. Peel's late conduct on the Catholic ques- 
 tion, innocent 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 extremes, and her 
 insistence on regulating life according to notions 
 which might cause a wary man to hesitate before 
 lie 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 
 fervidly 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 books ! Such a wife might 
 awaken you some fine morning with a new scheme
 
 Dorothea.
 
 MISS BROOKE. 7 
 
 # 
 
 for the application of her income which would 
 interfere with political economy and the keeping 
 of saddle-horses : a man would naturally think 
 twice before he risked himself in such fellowship. 
 "Women were expected to have weak opinions ; but 
 the great safeguard of society and of domestic life 
 was, that opinions were not acted on. Sane people 
 did what their neighbours did, so that if any luna- 
 tics were at large, one might know 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 innocent-looking, 
 while Miss Brooke's large eyes seemed, like her 
 religion, too unusual and striking. Poor Doro- 
 thea ! 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 recon- 
 cilable 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. 
 Eiding was an indulgence which she allowed her- 
 self in spite of conscientious qualms ; she felt that 
 she enjoyed it in a pagan sensuous way, and al- 
 ways looked forward to renouncing it. 
 
 She was open, ardent, and not in the least self- 
 admiring; indeed, it was pretty to see how her 
 imagination adorned her sister Celia with attrac- 
 tions altogether superior to her own, and if any 
 gentleman appeared to come to the Grange from
 
 8 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 some other motive than that of seeing Mr. Brooke, 
 she concluded that he must be in love with Celia: 
 Sir James Chettam, for example, whom she con- 
 stantly considered from Celia's point of view, in- 
 wardly 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. Dorothea, with all her 
 eagerness to know the truths of life, retained 
 very childlike ideas about marriage. She felt sure 
 that she would have accepted the judicious Hooker, 
 if she had been born in time to save him from that 
 wretched mistake he made in matrimony ; or John 
 Milton when his blindness had come on ; or any 
 of the other great men whose odd habits it would 
 have been glorious piety to endure ; but an amia- 
 ble handsome baronet, who said " Exactly " to her 
 remarks even when she expressed uncertainty, — 
 how could he affect her as a lover ? The really 
 delightful marriage must be that where your hus- 
 band was a sort of father, and could teach you 
 even Hebrew, if you wished it. 
 
 These peculiarities of Dorothea's character caused 
 Mr. Brooke to be all the more blamed in neigh- 
 bouring families for not securing some middle-aged 
 lady as guide and companion to his nieces. 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 Doro- 
 thea's objections, and was in this case brave enough 
 to defy the world, — that is to say, Mrs. Cadwalla- 
 der the Eector'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 dislike
 
 MISS BROOKE. g 
 
 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 Dorothea 
 felt some venerating expectation. This was the 
 Eeverend 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 ascer- 
 tained on the publication of his book. His very 
 name carried an impressiveness hardly to be meas- 
 ured without a precise 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 in 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 to-day, and divided them ? It is exactly 
 six months to-day since uncle gave them to you, 
 and you have not looked at them yet. " 
 
 Celia 's face had the shadow of a pouting expres- 
 sion in it, the full presence of the pout being kept 
 back by an habitual awe of Dorothea and prin- 
 ciple, — two associated facts which might show a 
 mysterious electricity if you touched them incau- 
 tiously. To her relief, Dorothea's eyes were full 
 of laughter as she looked up.
 
 lo MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 " 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 wag 
 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- 
 plans on a margin. 
 
 Celia coloured, and looked very grave. " I 
 think, dear, we 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 Poin^on, 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 m.ental 
 strength when she really applied herself to 
 argument. 
 
 " You would like to wear them ? " exclaimed 
 Dorothea, an air of astonished discovery animating 
 her whole person with a dramatic action which 
 she had caught from that very Madame PoinQon 
 who wore the ornaments. " Of course, then, let 
 us have them out. Why did you not tell me be- 
 fore ? But the keys, the keys ! " 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 ex- 
 planation had been long meditated and prearranged.
 
 MISS BROOKE. ii 
 
 " Pray open the large drawer of the cabinet and 
 get out the jewel-box. " 
 
 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 fitted 
 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 this cross you must wear 
 with your dark dresses. " 
 
 Celia was trying not to smile with pleasure. " Oh, 
 Dodo, you must keep the cross yourself. " 
 
 " No, no, dear, no, " said Dorothea, putting up 
 her hand with careless deprecation. 
 
 " Yes, indeed you must; it would suit you, — in 
 your black dress, now, " said Celia, insistingly. 
 " You might wear that. " 
 
 " Not for the world, not for the world. A cross 
 is the last thing I would wear as a trinket. " 
 Dorothea shuddered slightly. 
 
 " Then you will think it wicked in me to wear 
 it, " said Celia, uneasily. 
 
 " No, dear, no, " said Dorothea, stroking her 
 sister's cheek. "Souls have complexions too: 
 what will suit one will not suit another. " 
 
 " But you might like to keep it for mamma's 
 sake. "
 
 12 MIBDLEMARCH. 
 
 "No, I 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 
 need discuss them no longer. There, — take away 
 your property. " 
 
 Celia felt a little hurt. There was a strong 
 assumption of superiority in this Puritanic tolera- 
 tion, hardly less trying to the blond flesh of an 
 unenthusiastic sister than a Puritanic persecution. 
 
 " 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 
 off. " It would be a little tight for your neck ; 
 something to lie down and hang would 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 tak- 
 ing it. She was opening some ring-boxes, 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 sud- 
 den as the gleam. " It is strange how deeply 
 colours seem to penetrate one, like scent. I sup- 
 pose that is the reason why gems are used as 
 spiritual emblems in the Kevelation of Saint John. 
 They look like fragments of heaven. I think that 
 emerald is more beautiful than any of them. "
 
 MISS BROOKE. 13 
 
 "And there is a bracelet to match it," said 
 Celia. " We did not notice this at first. " 
 
 " They are lovely, " said Dorothea, slipping the 
 ring and bracelet on her finely turned finger and 
 wrist, and holding them towards the window on a 
 level with her eyes. All the while her thought 
 was trying to justify her delight in the colours by 
 merging them in her mystic religious joy. 
 
 " You loould like those, Dorothea, " said Celia, 
 rather falteringly, beginning to think with won- 
 der that her sister showed some weakness, and 
 also that emeralds would suit her own complexion 
 even better than purple amethysts. " You must 
 keep that ring and bracelet, — if nothing else. 
 But see, these agates are very pretty — and quiet. " 
 
 " Yes ! I will keep these, — this ring and brace- 
 let, " 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 them ! " 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, 
 decidedly. " But take all the rest away, and the 
 casket. " 
 
 She took up her pencil without removing the 
 jewels, and still looking 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 imaginative adornment of those whom she 
 loved, there darted now and then a keen discern'
 
 14 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 ment, which was not without a scorching quality. 
 If Miss Brooke ever attained perfect meekness, it 
 would not be for lack of inward fire. 
 
 " Perhaps, " she said, rather haughtily. " I can- 
 not tell to what level I 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 ornaments 
 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 ques- 
 tion, and she repeated to herself that Dorothea 
 was inconsistent : either she should have taken 
 her full share of the jewels, or, after what she had 
 said, she should have renounced them altogether. 
 
 " I am sure, — at least, T 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, 
 until 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 fireplaces. " 
 
 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
 
 MISS BUOOKE. 15 
 
 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 with- 
 out its private opinions?
 
 CHAPTEE II. 
 
 " Dime ; no ves aquel caballero que hacia nosotros viene sobre 
 un caballo rucio rodado que trae puesto eu la cabeza uu yelmo de 
 oro ? " " Lo que veo y columbro," respondib Sancho, " no es sino 
 uu hoiubre sobre uu as uo pardo como el mio, que trae sobre la 
 cabeza uua cu^a que relumbra." "Pues ese es el yelmo de Mam- 
 brino," dijo Don Quijote. 
 
 (" Seest thou not you cavalier who cometh toward us on a dapple- 
 gray steed, and weareth a golden helmet ? " " What I see," 
 answered Sancho, " is nothing but a man on a gray ass like my 
 own, who carries something shiny on his liead." " Just so," 
 answered Don Quixote : " and that resplendent object is the hel- 
 met of Mambrino.") — Ckrvantes. 
 
 " SiE HuMPHEY 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 Hum- 
 phry Davy ; I dined with him years ago at Cart- 
 wright's, and Wordsworth was there too, — the 
 poet Wordsworth, you know. Now there was 
 something singular. I was at Cambridge when 
 Wordsworth was there, and I never met him, — 
 and I dined with him twenty years afterwards at 
 Cartwright's. There 's an oddity in things, now. 
 But Davy was there : he was a poet too. Or, as I 
 may say, Wordsworth was poet one, and Davy was 
 poet two. That was true in every sense, you 
 know. " 
 
 Dorothea felt a little more uneasy than usual. 
 In the beginning of dinner, the party being small 
 and the room still, these motes from the mass of a
 
 MISS BROOKE. 17 
 
 magistrate's mind fell too noticeably. She won- 
 dered how a man like Mr. Casaubon would support 
 such triviality. His manners, she thought, were 
 very dignified ; the set of his iron-gray hair and his 
 deep eye-sockets made him resemble the portrait 
 of Locke. He had the spare form and the pale 
 complexion which became a student ; as different 
 as possible from the blooming Englishman of the 
 red-whiskered type represented by Sir James 
 Chettam. 
 
 " I am reading the Agricultural Chemistry, " said 
 this excellent baronet, " because I am going to 
 take one of the farms into my own hands, and see 
 if something cannot be done in setting a good pat- 
 tern of farming among my tenants. Do you ap- 
 prove of that, Miss Brooke ? " 
 
 " A great mistake, Chettam, " interposed Mr. 
 Brooke, " going into electrifying your land and 
 that kind of thing, and making a parlour of your 
 cow-house. It won't do. 1 went into science a 
 great deal myself at one time ; but I saw it would 
 not do. It leads to everything ; you can let noth- 
 ing alone. No, no, — see that your tenants don't 
 sell their straw, and that kind of thing ; and give 
 them draining-tiles, you know. But your fancy 
 farming will not do, — the most expensive sort of 
 whistle you can buy : you may as well keep a pack 
 of hounds. " 
 
 " Surely, " said Dorothea, " it is better to spend 
 money in finding out how men can make the most 
 of the land which supports them all, than in keep 
 ing dogs and horses only to gallop over it. It is 
 not a sin to make yourself poor in performing ex- 
 periments for the good of all. " 
 
 She spoke with more energy than is expected of 
 
 VOL. I. — 2
 
 i8 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 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 econ- 
 omy, you know, " said Mr. Brooke, smiling towards 
 Mr. Casaubon. " I remember when we were all 
 reading Adam Smith. There is a book, now. I 
 took in all the new ideas at one time, — human 
 perfectibility, now. But some say, history moves 
 in circles ; and that may be very well argued ; I 
 have argued it myself. The fact is, human reason 
 may carry you a little too far, — over the hedge, in 
 fact. It carried me a good way at one time ; but I 
 saw it would not do. I pulled up ; I pulled up in 
 time. But not too hard. I have always been in 
 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 ' Penin- 
 sular War.' I am reading that of a morning. 
 You know Southey ? " 
 
 " No, " said Mr. Casaubon, not keeping pace 
 with Mr. Brooke's impetuous reason, and thinking 
 of the book only. " I have little leisure for such 
 literature just now. I have been using up my 
 eyesight on old characters lately ; the fact is, I 
 want a reader for my evenings; but I am fastidi- 
 ous 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 some- 
 thing like the ghost of an ancient, wandering about
 
 MISS BROOKE. ig 
 
 the world and trying mentally to construct it as it 
 used to be, in spite of ruin and confusing changes. 
 But I find it necessary to use the utmost caution 
 about my eyesight. " 
 
 This was the first time that Mr. Casaubon had 
 spoken at any length. He delivered himself with 
 precision, as if he had been called upon to make a 
 public statement ; and the balanced sing-song neat- 
 ness of his speech, occasionally corresponded to by 
 a movement of his head, was the more conspicuous 
 from its contrast with good Mr. Brooke's scrappy 
 slovenliness. Dorothea said to herself that Mr. 
 Casaubon was the most interesting man she had 
 ever seen, not excepting even Monsieur Liret, the 
 Vaudois clergyman who had given conferences on 
 the history of the Waklenses. To reconstruct a 
 past world, doubtless with a view to the highest 
 purposes of truth, — -what a work to be in any way 
 present at, to assist in, though only as a lamp- 
 holder ! This elevating thought lifted her above 
 her annoyance at being twitted with her ignorance 
 of political economy, that never-explained science 
 which was thrust as an extinguisher over all her 
 lights. 
 
 " But you are fond of riding. Miss Brooke, " Sir 
 James presently took an opportunity of saying. 
 " I should have thought you would enter a little 
 into the pleasures of hunting. I wish you would 
 let me send over a chestnut horse for you to try. 
 It has been trained for a lady. I saw you on 
 Saturday cantering over the hill on a nag not 
 worthy of you. My groom shall bring Corydon 
 for you every day, if you will only mention the 
 time. " 
 
 " Thank you, you are very good. I mean to
 
 20 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 L^ive up riding. I shall not ride any more, " said 
 Dorothea, urged to this brusque resolution by a 
 little annoyance that Sir James would be soliciting 
 her attention when she wanted to give it all to 
 Mr. Casaubon. 
 
 " No, that is too hard, " said Sir James, in a 
 tone of reproach that showed strong interest. 
 " Your sister is given to self-mortification, is she 
 not ? " he continued, turning to Celia, who sat at 
 his right hand. 
 
 " I think she is, " said Celia, feeling afraid lest 
 she should say something that would not please 
 her sister, and blushing as prettily as possible 
 above her necklace. " She likes giving up. " 
 
 " If that were true, Celia, my giving-up would 
 be self-indulgence, not self-mortification. But 
 there may be good reasons for choosing not to do 
 what is very agreeable, " said Dorothea. 
 
 Mr. Brooke was speaking at the same time, but 
 it was evident that Mr. Casaubon was observing 
 Dorothea, and she was aware of it. 
 
 " Exactly," said Sir James. " You give up from 
 some high generous motive. " 
 
 " No, indeed, not exactly. I did not say that of 
 myself, " answered Dorothea, reddening. Unlike 
 Celia, she rarely blushed, and only from high de- 
 light or anger. At this moment she felt angry 
 with the perverse Sir James. Why did he not pay 
 attention to Celia, and leave her to listen to Mr. 
 Casaubon? — if that learned man would only talk, 
 instead of allowing himself to be talked to by Mr. 
 Brooke, who was just then informing him that the 
 Eeformation 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
 
 MISS BROOKE. 21 
 
 acre of your ground for a Eomanist chapel, all 
 men needed the bridle of religion, which, properly- 
 speaking, was the dread of a Hereafter. 
 
 " I made a great study of theology at one time," 
 said Mr. Brooke, as if to explain the insight just 
 manifested. " I know something of all schools. 
 I knew Wilberforce in his best days. Do you 
 know Wilberforce ? " 
 
 Mr. Casaubon said, " No. " 
 
 " Well, Wilberforce was perhaps not enough of 
 a thinker; but if I went into Parliament, as I 
 have been asked to do, I should sit on the inde- 
 pendent bench, as Wilberforce did, and work at 
 philanthropy. " 
 
 Mr. Casaubon bowed, and observed that it was a 
 wide field. 
 
 " Yes, " said Mr. Brooke, with an easy smile ; 
 " but I have documents. I began a long while ago 
 to collect documents. They want arranging, but 
 when a question has struck me, I have written to 
 somebody and got an answer. I have documents 
 at my back. But now, how do you arrange your 
 documents ? " 
 
 " In pigeon-holes partly, " said Mr. Casaubon, 
 with rather a startled air of effort. 
 
 " Ah, pigeon-holes will not do. I have tried 
 pigeon-holes, but everything gets mixed in pigeon- 
 holes : I never know whether a paper is in A or Z. " 
 
 " I wish you would let me sort your papers for 
 you, uncle, " said Dorothea. " I would letter them 
 all, and then make a list of subjects under each 
 letter. " 
 
 Mr. Casaubon gravely smiled approval, and said 
 to Mr. Brooke, " You have an excellent secretary 
 at hand, you perceive. "
 
 22 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 " No, no, " said Mr. Brooke, shaking his head ; 
 " I cannot let young ladies meddle with my docu- 
 ments. Young ladies are too flighty. " 
 
 Dorothea felt hurt. Mr. Casaubon would think 
 that her uncle had some special reason for deliver- 
 ing this opinion, whereas the remark lay in his 
 mind as lightly as the broken wing of an insect 
 among all the other fragments there, and a chance 
 current had sent it alighting on her. 
 
 When the two girls were in the drawing-room 
 alone, Celia said, — 
 
 " How very ugly Mr. Casaubon is ! " 
 
 " Celia ! He is one of the most distinguished- 
 looking men I ever saw. He is remarkably like 
 the portrait of Locke. He has the same deep eye- 
 sockets. " 
 
 " Had Locke those two white moles with hairs 
 on them ? " 
 
 " Oh, I dare say ! when people of a certain sort 
 looked at him, " said Dorothea, walking away a 
 little. 
 
 " Mr. Casaubon is so sallow. " 
 
 " All the better. I suppose you admire a man 
 with the complexion of a cochon de lait. " 
 
 "Dodo!" exclaimed Celia, looking after her in 
 surprise. " I never heard you make such a com- 
 parison before. " 
 
 " Why should I make it before the occasion 
 came ? It is a good comparison : the match is 
 perfect. " 
 
 Miss Brooke was clearly forgetting herself, and 
 Celia thought so. 
 
 " I wonder you show temper, Dorothea. " 
 
 " It is so painful in you, Celia, that you will 
 look at human beings as if they were merely ani-
 
 MISS BROOKE. 23 
 
 mals with a toilet, and never see the great soul in 
 a man's face. " 
 
 " Has Mr. Casaubon a great soul ? " Celia was 
 not without a touch of naive malice. 
 
 " Yes, I believe he has, " said Dorothea, with the 
 full voice of decision. " Everything I see in him 
 corresponds to his pamphlet on Biblical Cosmology. " 
 
 " He talks very little, " said Celia. 
 
 " There is no one for him to talk to. " 
 
 Celia thought privately, " Dorothea quite de- 
 spises Sir James Chettam ; I believe she would not 
 accept him. " Celia felt that this was a pity. She 
 had never been deceived as to the object of the 
 baronet's interest. Sometimes, indeed, she had 
 reflected that Dodo would perhaps not make a hus- 
 band happy who had not her way of looking at 
 things ; and stifled in the depths of her heart was 
 the feeling that her sister was too religious for 
 family comfort. Notions and scruples were like 
 spilt needles, making one afraid of treading, or 
 sitting down, or even eating. 
 
 When Miss Brooke was at the tea-table. Sir 
 James came to sit down by her, not having felt 
 her mode of answering him at all offensive. Why 
 should he ? He thought it probable that Miss 
 Brooke liked him, and manners must be very 
 marked indeed before they cease to be interpreted 
 by preconceptions either confident or distrustful. 
 She was thoroughly charming to him, but of course 
 he theorized a little about his attachment. He 
 was made of excellent human dough, and had the 
 rare merit of knowing that his talents, even if let 
 loose, would not set the smallest stream in the 
 county on fire : hence he liked the prospect of a 
 wife to whom he could say, " What shall we do ? "
 
 24 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 about this or that; who could help her husband 
 out with reasons, and would also have the property 
 qualification for doing so. As to the excessive 
 religiousness alleged against Miss Brooke, he had 
 a very indefinite notion of what it consisted in, 
 and thought that it would die out with marriage. 
 In short, he felt himself to be in love in the right 
 place, and was ready to endure a great deal of pre- 
 dominance, 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 predomi- 
 nance of this handsome girl, in whose cleverness 
 he delighted. Why not? A man's mind — what 
 there is of it — has always the advantage of being 
 masculine, — as the smallest birch -tree is of a 
 higher kind than the most soaring palm, — and 
 even his ignorance is of a sounder quality. Sir 
 James might not have originated this estimate; 
 but a kind Providence furnishes the limpest per- 
 sonality with a little gum or starch in the form of 
 tradition. 
 
 " Let me hope that you will rescind that resolu- 
 tion about the horse, Miss Brooke, " said the per- 
 severing admirer. " I assure you, riding is the 
 most healthy of exercises. " 
 
 " I am aware of it, " said Dorothea, coldly. " I 
 think it would do Celia good, if she would take 
 to it." 
 
 " But you are such a perfect horsewoman. " 
 
 " Excuse me ; I have had very little practice, 
 and I should be easily thrown. " 
 
 " Then that is a reason for more practice. Every 
 lady ought to be a perfect horsewoman, that she 
 may accompany her husband. " 
 
 " You see how widely we differ, Sir James. I
 
 MISS BROOKE. 25 
 
 have made up my mind that I ought not to be a 
 perfect horsewoman, and so I should never corre- 
 spond to your pattern of a lady. " Dorothea looked 
 straight before her, and spoke with cold brusquerie, 
 very much with the air of a handsome boy, in 
 amusing contrast with the solicitous amiability of 
 her admirer. 
 
 " I should like to know your reasons for this 
 cruel resolution. It is not possible that you 
 should think horsemanship wrong. " 
 
 " It is quite possible that I should think it 
 wrong for me. " 
 
 " Oh, why ? " said Sir James, in a tender tone of 
 remonstrance. 
 
 Mr. Casaubon had come up to the table, teacup 
 in hand, and was listening. 
 
 " We must not inquire too curiously into mo- 
 tives, " he interposed, in his measured way. " Miss 
 Brooke knows that they are apt to become feeble 
 in the utterance : the aroma is mixed with the 
 grosser air. We must keep the germinating grain 
 away from the light. " 
 
 Dorothea coloured with pleasure, and looked up 
 gratefully to the speaker. Here was a man who 
 could understand the higher inward life, and with 
 whom there could be some spiritual communion ; 
 nay, who could illuminate principle with the 
 widest knowledge : a man whose learning almost 
 amounted to a proof of whatever he believed 1 
 
 Dorothea's inferences may seem large; but really 
 life could never have gone on at any period but for 
 this liberal allowance of conclusions, which lias 
 facilitated marriage under the difficulties of civi- 
 lization. Has any one ever pinched into its 
 pilulous smallness the cobweb of pre -matrimonial 
 acquaintanceship ?_
 
 26 MIDDLEMAKCH. 
 
 " Certainly, " said good Sir James. " Miss 
 Brooke shall not be urged to tell reasons she would 
 rather be silent upon. I am sure her reasons 
 would do her honour. " 
 
 He was not in the least jealous of the interest 
 with which Dorothea had looked up at Mr. Casau- 
 bon : it never occurred to him that a girl to whom 
 he was meditating an offer of marriage could care 
 for a dried bookworm towards fifty, except, in- 
 deed, in a religious sort of way, as for a clergyman 
 of some distinction. 
 
 However, since Miss Brooke had become engaged 
 in a conversation with Mr. Casaubon about the 
 Vaudois clergy, Sir James betook himself to Celia, 
 and talked to her about her sister ; spoke of a house 
 in town, and asked whether Miss Brooke disliked 
 London. Away from her sister, Celia talked quite 
 easily, and Sir James said to himself that the 
 second Miss Brooke was certainly very agreeable 
 as well as pretty, though not, as some people pre- 
 tended, 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 natu- 
 rally likes to look forward to having the best. He 
 would be the very Maw worm of bachelors who 
 pretended not to expect it.
 
 CHAPTEK III. 
 
 Say, goddess, what ensued, when Raphael, 
 The affable archangel . . . 
 
 Eve 
 The story heard attentive, and was filled 
 With admiration, and deep muse, to hear 
 Of things so high and strange. 
 
 Paradise Lost, B. vii. 
 
 If it had really occurred to Mr. Casaubon to think 
 of Miss Brooke as a suitable wife for him, the 
 reasons that might induce her to accept him were 
 already planted in her mind, and by the even- 
 ing 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 vague labyrinthine extension every 
 quality she herself brought ; had opened much of 
 her own experience to him, and had understood 
 from him the scope of his great work, also of at- 
 tractively 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 undertaken to show (what 
 indeed had been attempted before, but not with 
 that thoroughness, justice of comparison, and effec- 
 tiveness of arrangement at which Mr. Casaubon
 
 28 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 aimed) that all the mythical systems or erratic 
 mythical fragments in the world were corruptions 
 of a tradition originally revealed. Having once 
 mastered the true position and taken a firm footing 
 there, the vast field of mythical constructions be- 
 came intelligible, 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 vol- 
 umes, but the crowning task would be to condense 
 these voluminous still-accumulating results, and 
 bring them, like the earlier vintage of Hippocratic 
 books, to fit a little shelf. In explaining this to 
 Dorothea, Mr. Casaubon expressed himself nearly 
 as he would have done to a fellow-student, for he 
 had not two styles of talking at command : it is 
 true that when he used a Greek or Latin phrase he 
 always gave the English with scrupulous care, but 
 he would probably have done this in any case. A 
 learned provincial clergyman is accustomed to 
 think of his acquaintances as of " lords, knyghtes, 
 and other noble and worthi men, that conue Latyn 
 but lytille. " 
 
 Dorothea was altogether captivated by the wide 
 embrace of this conception. Here was something 
 beyond the shallows of ladies '-school literature: 
 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
 
 MISS BROOKE. 29 
 
 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 distant ages, she found in Mr. Casaubon a 
 listener who understood her at once, who could as- 
 sure her of his own agreement with that view when 
 duly tempered with wise conformity, and could men- 
 tion historical examples before unknown to her. 
 
 " He thinks with me, " said Dorothea to herself, 
 " or rather, he thinks a whole world of which my 
 thought is but a poor twopenny mirror. And his 
 feelings too, his whole experience, — what a lake 
 compared with my little pool ! " 
 
 Miss Brooke argued from words and dispositions 
 not less unhesitatingly than other young ladies of 
 her age. Signs are small measurable things, but 
 interpretations are illimitable, and in girls of 
 sweet, ardent nature, every sign is apt to conjvire 
 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 de- 
 ceived ; for Sinbad himself may have fallen by 
 good-luck on a true description, and wrong rear~on- 
 ing sometimes lands poor mortals in right conclu- 
 sions : 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 longer than he had intended, 
 on a slight pressure of invitation from Mr. Brooke, 
 who offered no bait except his own documents on 
 machine-breaking and rick-burning. Mr. Casaubon 
 was called into the library to look at these in a
 
 30 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 heap, while his host picked up first one and then 
 the other to read ahnid 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 youthful Continental travels. 
 
 " Look here, — here is all about Greece. Eham- 
 nus, the ruins of Ehamnus, — 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, now ! — ' We started the next morn- 
 ing for Parnassus, the double-peaked Parnassus. ' 
 All this 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 some- 
 what sad audience ; bowed in the right place, and 
 avoided looking at anything documentary as far as 
 possible, without showing disregard or impatience ; 
 mindful that this desultoriness 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 
 ciistos rotulorum. "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 win- 
 try sunshine. Before he left the next morning, 
 while taking a pleasant walk with Miss Brooke 
 along the gravelled terrace, he had mentioned to
 
 MISS BROOKE. 31 
 
 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 this 
 statement with as much careful 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 
 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 confi- 
 dence 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 
 Eectory 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 colour rose in
 
 32 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 her cheeks, and her straw bonnet (which our con- 
 temporaries might look at with conjectural curios- 
 ity as at an obsolete form of basket) fell a little 
 backward. She would perhaps be hardly charac- 
 terized 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 man- 
 ner at a time when public feeling required the 
 meagreness of nature to be dissimulated by tall 
 barricades of frizzed curls and bows, never sur- 
 passed 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 in- 
 tensity of her mood, the solemn glory of the after- 
 noon 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 Strepbon have been sufficiently conse- 
 crated in poetry, as the pathetic loveliness of all 
 spontaneous trust ought to be. Miss Pippin ador- 
 ing 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 short-waisted swallow-tail, 
 and everybody felt it not only natural but neces- 
 sary to the perfection of womanhood, that a sweet
 
 MISS BROOKE. 33 
 
 girl should he at once convinced of his virtue, his 
 exceptional ability , and above all, his perfect sin- 
 cerity. But perhaps no persons then living — • 
 certainly none in the neighbourhood of Tipton — 
 would have had a sympathetic understanding 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 trousseau, 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 miglit 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 messen- 
 ger 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 Charac- 
 ters, " unfolding the private experience of Sara 
 under the Old Dispensation, and Dorcas under the 
 New, and the care of her soul over her embroidery 
 
 TOL. I. — 3
 
 34 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 in her own boudoir, — with a background of pro- 
 spective 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 dis- 
 position, the coercion it exercised over her life, 
 was lait one aspect of a nature altogether ardent, 
 theoretic, and intellectually consequent : and with 
 such a nature struggling in the bauds of a narrow 
 teaching, hemmed iu 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 ex- 
 aggeration and inconsistency. The thing which 
 seemed to her best, she wanted to justify by the 
 completest knowledge ; and not to live in a pre- 
 tended 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 giriisii 
 subjection to her own ignorance, and give her the 
 freedom of voluntary submission to a guide who 
 would take her aloug the grandest path. 
 
 " I should learn everything then," she said to her- 
 self, 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 greate.-^t 
 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 —
 
 MISS BROOKE. 35 
 
 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 T 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 wav- 
 ing blond hair. " It has hastened the pleasure I 
 was looking forward to. " 
 
 Miss Brooke was annoyfed 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 pro- 
 spective brother-in-law may be an oppression if he 
 will always be presupposing too good an under- 
 standing 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 activ-
 
 36 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 ity 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 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 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 help- 
 less : 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
 
 MISS BROOKE. 37 
 
 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 com- 
 plimenting ? 
 
 " 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
 
 38 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 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. Labourers 
 can never pay rent to make it answer. But, after 
 all, it is worth doing. " 
 
 " Worth doing! yes, indeed," said Dorothea, en- 
 ergetically, forgetting her previous small vexations. 
 " I think we deserve to be beaten out of our beau- 
 tiful 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 ? " 
 
 " Yes, certainly. I dare say it is very faulty. 
 But I have been examining all the plans for cot- 
 tages in Loudon's book, and picked out what 
 seem the best things. 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 
 pigsty 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 Lowick, and more and more elsewhere in imita- 
 tion, — it would be as if the spirit of 01)erlin had 
 passed over the parishes to make the life uf 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
 
 MISS BROOKE. 39 
 
 progress in Miss Brooke's good opinion. The 
 Maltese puppy was not offered to Celia, — an omis- 
 sion 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 
 examined, and observed Sir James's illusion. " He 
 thinks 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 everything and carry out all her no- 
 tions. And how very uncomfortable Sir James 
 would be ! 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 her- 
 self open to a demonstration that she was some- 
 how or other at war with all goodness. But on 
 safe opportunities, she had an indirect mode of 
 making her negative wisdom tell upon Dorothea, 
 and calling her down from her rhapsodic mood by 
 reminding her that people were staring, not listen- 
 ing. 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 un- 
 derstand how well-bred 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 night. 
 Thus Dorothea had three more conversations with
 
 40 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 him, and was convinced that her first impressions 
 had been just. He was all she had at first im- 
 agined him to be : almost everything he had said 
 seemed like a specimen from a mine, or the in- 
 scription on the door of a museum which might 
 open on the treasures of past ages ; and this trust 
 in his 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 think 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 instruc- 
 tive correction. What delightful companionship ! 
 Mr. Casaubon seemed even unconscious that trivi- 
 alities existed, and never handed rouid that small- 
 talk of heavy men which is as acceptable as stale 
 bride-cake brought forth with an odour of cupboard. 
 He talked of what he was interested in, or else he 
 was silent and bowed with sad civility. To Doro- 
 thea this 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 learn- 
 ing. He assented to her expressions of devout 
 feeling, and usually with an appropriate quotation ; 
 he allowed himself to say that he had gone through 
 some spiritual conflicts in his youth ; in short, 
 Dorothea saw that here she might reckon on un- 
 derstanding, sympathy, and guidance. On one — 
 only one — of her favourite themes she was disap- 
 pointed. Mr. Casaubon apparently did not care 
 about building cottages, and diverted the talk to 
 the extremely narrow accomiiiedation which was
 
 MISS BROOKD. 41 
 
 to be had in the dwellings of the ancient Egyp- 
 tians, as if to check a too high standard. After he 
 was gone, Dorothea dwelt with some agitation on 
 this indifference of his ; and her mind was much 
 exercised with arguments drawn from the varying 
 conditions of climate which modify human needs, 
 and from the admitted wickedness of pagan des- 
 pots. Should she not urge these arguments on Mr. 
 Casaubon when he came again ? But further re- 
 flection told her that she was presumptuous in 
 demanding his atteiition 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 
 ashamed as she detected herself in these specula- 
 tions. 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 documents ? 
 
 Meanwhile that little disappointment made her 
 delight the more in Sir James Chettam's readiness 
 to set on foot the desired improvements. He came 
 much oftener than Mr. Casaubon, and Dorothea 
 ceased to find him disagreeable since he showed 
 himself so entirely in earnest ; for he had already 
 entered with much practical ability into Love- 
 good's estimates, and was charmingly docile. She 
 proposed to build a couple of cottages, and trans- 
 fer 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, " Exactly ; " 
 and she bore the word remarkably well. 
 
 Certainly these men who had so few spontaneous
 
 42 MIDDLEMAKCH. 
 
 ideas might be very useful members of society 
 under good feminine direction, if they were fortu- 
 nate in choosing their sisters-in-law I It is diffi- 
 cult to say whether there was or was not a little 
 wilfulness in her continuing blind to the possibil- 
 ity 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 thinking of 
 her plans, but getting down learned books from 
 the library and reading many things hastily (that 
 she might be a little less ignorant in talking to 
 ^.Tr. Casaubon), all the while being visited with 
 conscientious questionings whether she were not 
 exalting these poor doings above measure and con- 
 templating them with that self-satisfaction which 
 was the last doom of ignorance and folly.
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 " 1st Gent. Our deeds are fetters that we forge ourselves. 
 2d Gent. Ay, truly : but I think it is the world 
 That brings the iron." 
 
 * Sir James seems determined to do everything you 
 wish, " said Celia, as they were driving home from 
 an inspection of the new building-site. 
 
 " He is a good creature, and more sensible 
 than any one would imagine, " said Dorothea, 
 inconsiderately. 
 
 " You mean that he appears silly. " 
 
 " No, no, " said Dorothea, recollecting herself, 
 and laying her hand on her sister's a moment; 
 " but he does not talk equally well on all subjects. " 
 
 " I should think none but disagreeable people 
 do, " said Celia, in her usual purring way. " They 
 must be very dreadful to live with. Only think ! 
 at breakfast, and always. " 
 
 Dorothea laughed. " Oh, Kitty, you are a won- 
 derful creature ! " She pinched Celia' s chin, being 
 in the mood now to think her very winning 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 talking well. 
 Only 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 cate- 
 chise me about Sir James ? It is not the object of 
 his life to please me. "
 
 44 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 " Now, Dodo, can you really believe that ? " 
 
 " Certainly. He thinks of me as a future sister, 
 — that is all. " Dorothea had never hinted this 
 before, waiting, from a certain shyness 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 confirm 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. 
 I am 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 ex- 
 pects it. Every one can see that Sir James is very 
 much in love with you. " 
 
 The revulsion was so strong and painful in 
 Dorothea's mind that the tears welled up and 
 flowed abundantly. All her dear plans were em- 
 bittered, and she thought with disgust of Sir 
 James's conceiving that she recognized him as her 
 lover. There was vexation too on account of 
 Celia. 
 
 " How could he expect it ? " she burst forth in
 
 MISS BROOKE. 45 
 
 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 since 
 then ; he has begun to feel quite sure that you are 
 fond of him. " 
 
 " Fond of him, Celia! How can you choose such 
 odious expressions ? " said Dorothea, passionately. 
 
 " 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. " I 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
 
 46 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 on, in an amiable staccato. " It is very hard : it 
 is your favourite fad to draw plans. " 
 
 " Fad to draw plans ! Do you think I only care 
 about my fellow -creatures' 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 
 disposed rather to accuse the intolerable narrow- 
 ness and the purblind conscience of the society 
 around her : and Celia was no longer the eternal 
 cherub, but a thorn in her spirit, a pink-and-white 
 nuUifidian, worse than any discouraging presence 
 in the " Pilgrim's Progress. " The fad. 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 criminal. 
 
 " Well, my dears, " he said kindly, 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. "
 
 MISS BROOKE. 47 
 
 " I came by Lowick to lunch, — you did n't 
 know I came by Lowick. 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, thrilling her from despair into expecta- 
 tion. 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 upstairs. Mr. Brooke was 
 detained by a message, but when he re-entered the 
 library, he found Dorothea seated and already deep 
 in one of the pamphlets which had some mar- 
 ginal 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 Jerusalem. 
 
 Mr. Brooke sat down in his arm- chair, 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 
 mildly 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. 
 
 " I came back by Lowick, you know, " said Mr. 
 Brooke, not as if with any intention to arrest her
 
 48 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 departure, 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 Casau- 
 bon'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 invi- 
 tation. 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, enjoy- 
 ing the glow, but lifting up her beautiful hands 
 for a screen. They were not thin hands or small 
 hands, but powerful, feipiuine, maternal hands. 
 She seemed to be holding them up in propitiation 
 for her passionate desire to know and to think, 
 which in the unfriendly mediums of Tipton and 
 Freshitt had issued in crying and red eyelids. 
 
 She bethought herself now of the condemned 
 criminal. " What news have you brought about 
 the sheep stealer, uncle ? " 
 
 " What, poor Bunch ? — well, it seems we can't 
 get him off, — he is to be hanged. " 
 
 Dorothea's brow took an expression of reproba- 
 tion and pity. 
 
 " Hanged, you know, " said Mr. Brooke, with a 
 quiet nod. " Poor Eorailly ! he would have helped 
 us. I knew Eomilly. Casaubon didn't know 
 Komilly. He is a little buried in books, you 
 know, Casaubon is. " 
 
 " When a man has great studies and is writing a 
 great work, he must of course give up seeing much 
 of the world. How can he go about making 
 acquaintances ? "
 
 MISS BROOKE. 49 
 
 " That '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 every- 
 thing. I never moped; but I can see that Casau- 
 bon 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 since 
 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, — does 
 Casaubon. He has deferred to me, you not being of 
 age. In short, I have promised to speak to you, 
 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 think it necessary to go into every- 
 thing. However, the long and the short of it is, 
 that he has asked my permission to make you an 
 offer of marriage, — of marriage, you know, " said 
 Mr. Brooke, with his explanatory nod. " I 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. 
 
 VOL. I. — 4
 
 50 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 What feeling he, as a magistrate who had taken 
 in so many ideas, could make room for was unmi^- 
 edly kind. Since Dorothea did not speak imme- 
 diately, he repeated, " I thought it better to tell 
 you, my dear. " 
 
 "Thank you, uncle," said Dorothea, in a clear 
 unwavering tone. " I 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 ? . . . Well ! He is a 
 good match in some respects. 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 thing, — up to a certain point, you 
 know. I have always said that, up to a certain 
 point. I wish you to marry well ; and I have good 
 reason to believe that Chettam wishes to marry 
 you. I mention it, you know. " 
 
 " It is impossible that I should ever marry Sir 
 James Chettam," said Dorothea. " If he thinks of 
 marrying me, he has made a great mistake. " 
 
 " 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 light again, 
 uncle, " said Dorothea, feeling some of her late 
 irritation revive. 
 
 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 pre- 
 diction about them. Here was a fellow like Chet 
 tarn with no chance at all.
 
 MISS BB.OOKE. 51 
 
 " Well, 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 opin- 
 ion, — 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 could n't yjut the thing better, 
 
 — could n't put it better, beforehand, you know. 
 But there are oddities in things," continued Mr. 
 Brooke, whose conscience was really roused to do 
 the best he could for his niece on this occasion. 
 " Life is n't cast in a mould, — not cut out by rule 
 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 is a noose, you
 
 52 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 know. Temper, now. There is temper. And a 
 husband likes to be master." 
 
 " I know that I must expect trials, uncle. Mar- 
 riage is a state of higher duties. I never thought 
 of it as mere personal ease," said poor Dorothea. 
 
 " Well, you are not fond of show, a great estab- 
 lishment, 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 knowing how anything may turn 
 out. You have not the same tastes as every young 
 lady ; and a clergyman and scholar — who may be a 
 bishop — that kind of thing — may suit you better 
 than Chettam. Chettam is a good fellow, a good 
 sound-hearted fellow, you know ; but he does n't go 
 much into ideas. I did, when I was his age. But 
 Casaubon's eyes, now. I 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. 
 
 " You 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 handed the 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 striking 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 dined with celebrities now deceased,
 
 MISS BROOKE. 53 
 
 could pretend to judge what sort of marriage would 
 turn out well for a young girl who preferred Casau- 
 bon 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 revolu- 
 tions of an irregular solid.
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Hard students are commonly troubled -n-ith gowts, catarrhs, 
 rheums, cachexia, bradypepsia, bad eyes, stone, and coUick, cru- 
 dities, oppilatioijs, vertigo, winds, consumptions, and all such 
 diseases as come by over-much sitting : they are most part lean, 
 dry, ill-coloured . . . au<l all through immoderate pains and extra- 
 ordinary studies. If you Avill not believe the truth of this 
 look upon great Tostatus and Thomas Aquainas' works; and tell 
 me whether those men took pains. —Burton's Anatomy of Mel- 
 ancholy, P. I. s. 2. 
 
 This was Mr. Casaubon's letter. 
 
 My dear Miss Brooke, — I have your guardian's 
 permission to address you on a subject than which I 
 have none more at heart. I am not, I trust, mistaken 
 in the recognition of some deeper correspondence than 
 that of date in the fact that a consciousness of need in 
 my own life had arisen contemporaneously with the pos- 
 sibility of my becoming acquainted with you. For in 
 the first hour of meeting you, I had an impression of 
 your eminent and perha2:)s exclusive fitness to supply 
 that need (connected, I maj' sa}^, with such activity of 
 the affections as even the preoccupations of a work too 
 special to be abdicated could not uninterruptedly dis- 
 simulate) ; and each succeeding opportunity for obser- 
 vation 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 con- 
 versations have, I think, made suflicieiitly clear to you 
 the tenor of my life and ])urposes : a tenor unsuited, I 
 am aware, to the commoner order of minds. But I 
 have discerned in you an elevation of thought and a
 
 MISS BROOKE. 55 
 
 capability of devotedness which I had hitherto not 
 conceived to be compatible either with the early bloom 
 of youth or with those graces of sex that may be said at 
 once to win and to confer distinction when combined, 
 as they notably are in you, with the mental qualities 
 above indicated. It was, I confess, beyond my hope to 
 meet with this rare combination of elements both 
 solid and attractive, adapted to supply aid in graver 
 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 state- 
 ment of my feelings ; and I rely on your kind indulgence 
 in venturing now to ask you how far your own are of a 
 nature to confirm my happy presentiment. To be 
 accepted by you as your husband and the earthly guar- 
 dian 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 conse- 
 cration of a life which, however short in the sequel, 
 has no backward pages whereon, if you choose to turn 
 them, you will find records such as might justly cause 
 you either bitterness or shame. I await the expression of 
 your sentiments with an anxiety which it would be the 
 part of wisdom (were it possible) to divert by a more 
 arduous labour than usual. But in this order of experi- 
 ence I am still young, and in looking forward to an 
 unfavourable possibility I cannot but feel that resig- 
 nation to solitude will be more diflS.cult after the 
 temporary illumination of hope. 
 
 In any case, I shall remain 
 
 Yours with sincere devotion, 
 
 Edward Casaubon.
 
 56 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 Dorothea trembled while she read this letter; 
 then she fell on her knees, buried her face, and 
 sobbed. She could not pray : under the rush of 
 solemn emotion in which thoughts became vague 
 and images floated uncertainly, she could but cast 
 herself, with a childlike sense of reclining, in the 
 lap of a divine consciousness which sustained her 
 own. She remained in that attitude till it was 
 time to dress for dinner. 
 
 How could it occur to her to examine the letter, 
 to look at it critically as a profession of love ? Her 
 whole soul was possessed by the fact that a fuller 
 life was opening before her : she was a neophyte 
 about to enter on a higher grade of initiation. She 
 was going to have room for the energies which 
 stirred uneasily under the dimness and pressure of 
 her own ignorance and the petty peremptoriness 
 of the world's habits. 
 
 Now she would be able to devote herself to large 
 yet definite duties ; now she would be allowed to 
 live continually in the light of a mind that she 
 could reverence. This hope was not unmixed with 
 the glow of proud delight, — the joyous maiden 
 surprise that she was chosen by the man whom her 
 admiration had chosen. All Dorothea's passion was 
 transfused through a mind struggling towards an 
 ideal life ; tlie radiance of her transfigured girlhood 
 fell on the first object that came within its level. 
 The impetus with which inclination became resolu- 
 tion was heightened by those little events of the 
 day which had roused her discontent with the 
 actual conditions of her life. 
 
 After dinner, when Ceha was playing an " air, 
 with variations," a small kind of tinkling which 
 symbolized the sesthetic part of the young ladies'
 
 MISS BROOKE. 57 
 
 education, Dorothea went up to her room to answer 
 Mr. Casaubon's letter. Why should she defer the 
 answer ? She wrote it over three times, not because 
 she wished to change the wording, but because her 
 hand was unusually uncertain, and she could not bear 
 that Mr. Casaubon should think her handwriting 
 bad and illegible. She piqued herself on writing a 
 hand in which each letter was distinguishable without 
 any large range of conjecture, and she meant to make 
 much use of this accomplishment, to save Mr. Casau- 
 bon's eyes. Three times she wrote. 
 
 My dear Mr. Casaubon, — I am very grateful to 
 you for loving me, aud thinking me worthy to be your 
 wife. I can look forward to no better happiness than 
 that which would be one with yours. If I said more, it 
 would only be the same thing written out at greater 
 length, for I cannot now dwell on any other thought 
 than that I may be through life 
 
 Yours devotedly, 
 
 Dorothea Brooke. 
 
 Later in the evening she followed her uncle into 
 the library to give him the letter, that he might 
 send it in the morning. He was surprised, but his 
 surprise only issued in a few moments' silence, dur- 
 ing which he pushed about various objects on his 
 writing-table, and finally stood with his back to the 
 fire, his glasses on his nose, looking at the address 
 of Dorothea's letter. 
 
 " Have you thought enough about this, my dear ? " 
 he said at last. 
 
 " There was no need to think long, uncle. I know 
 of nothing to make me vacillate. If I changed my 
 mind, it must be because of something important 
 and entirely new to me."
 
 58 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 " All ! — then you have accepted him ? Then 
 Chettam has no chance ? Has Chettam offended 
 you, — offended you, you know ? What is it you 
 don't like in Chettam ? " 
 
 " There is nothing that I like in him," said Doro- 
 thea, rather impetuously. 
 
 Mr. Brooke threw his head and shoulders back- 
 ward as if some one had thrown a light missile at 
 him. Dorothea immediately felt some self-rebuke, 
 and said, — 
 
 " I mean in the light of a husband. He is very 
 kind, I think, — really very good about the cottages. 
 A well-meaning man." 
 
 " But you must have a scholar, and that sort of 
 thing ? Well, it lies a little in our family. I had 
 it myself, — that love of knowledge, and going into 
 everything, — a little too much, — it took me too 
 far ; though that sort of thing does n't often run in 
 the female line ; or it runs underground like the 
 rivers in Greece, you know, — it comes out in the 
 sons. Clever sons, clever mothers. I went a good 
 deal into that, at one time. However, my dear, I 
 have always said that people should do as they like 
 in these things, up to a certain point. I couldn't, 
 as your guardian, have consented to a bad match. 
 But Casaubon stands well : his position is good. I 
 am afraid Chettam will be hurt, though, and Mrs. 
 Cadwallader will blame me." 
 
 That evening, of course, Celia knew nothing of 
 what had happened. She attributed Dorothea's 
 abstracted manner, and the evidence of further cry- 
 ing since they had got home, to the temper she had 
 been in about Sir James Chettam and the buildings, 
 and was careful not to give further offence : having 
 once said what she wanted to say, Celia had no dis-
 
 MISS BROOKE. 59 
 
 position to recur to disagreeable subjects. It had 
 been her nature when a child never to quarrel with 
 any one, — only to observe with wonder that they 
 quarrelled with her, and looked like turkey-cocks ; 
 whereupon she was ready to play at cat's cradle 
 with them whenever they recovered themselves. 
 And as to Dorothea, it had always been her way to 
 find something wrong in her sister's words, though 
 Celia inwardly protested that she always said just 
 how things were, and nothing else : she never did 
 and never could put words together out of her own 
 head. But the best of Dodo was, that she did not 
 keep angry for long together. Now, though they 
 had hardly spoken to each other all the evening, 
 yet when Celia put by her work, intending to go to 
 bed, a proceeding in which she was always much 
 the earlier, Dorothea, who was seated on a low stool, 
 unable to occupy herself except in meditation, said 
 with the musical intonation which in moments of 
 deep but quiet feeling made her speech like a fine 
 bit of recitative, — 
 
 " Celia, dear, come and kiss me," holding her arms 
 open as she spoke. 
 
 Celia knelt down to get the right level and gave 
 her little butterfly kiss, while Dorothea encircled 
 her with gentle arms, and pressed her lips gravely on 
 each cheek in turn. 
 
 " Don't sit up. Dodo, you are so pale to-night : go 
 to bed soon," said Celia, in a comfortable way, with- 
 out any touch of pathos. 
 
 " No, dear, I am very, very happy," said Dorothea, 
 fervently. 
 
 " So much the better," thought Celia. " But how 
 strangely Dodo goes from one extreme to the other ! " 
 
 The next day, at luncheon, the butler, handing
 
 6o MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 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 did n't wait to write 
 more, — did n'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 direc- 
 tion as her uncle's, she was struck with the peculiar 
 effect of the announcement on Dorothea. It seemed 
 as if something like the reflection of a white sunlit 
 wing had passed across her features, ending in one 
 of her rare blushes. For the first time it entered 
 into Celia's mind that there might be something 
 more between Mr. Casaubon and her sister than 
 his delight in bookish talk and her delight in listen- 
 ing. Hitherto she had classed the admiration for 
 this " ugly " and learned acquaintance with the 
 admiration for Monsieur Liret at Lausanne, also 
 ugly and learned. Dorothea had never been tired 
 of listening to old Monsieur Liret when Celia's feet 
 were as cold as possible, and when it had really 
 become dreadful to see the skin of his bald head 
 moving about. Why then should her enthusiasm 
 not extend to Mr. Casaubon simply in the same 
 way as to Monsieur Liret ? And it seemed probable 
 that all learned men had a sort of schoolmaster's 
 view of young people. 
 
 But now Celia was really startled at the suspicion 
 which had darted into her mind. She was seldom 
 taken by surprise in this way, her marvellous quick- 
 ness in observing a certain order of signs generally 
 preparing her to expect such outward events as she 
 lutd an interest in. Not that she now imagined Mr.
 
 MISS BKOOKE. 6t 
 
 Casaubon to be already an accepted lover : she bad 
 only begun to feel disgust at the possibility that any- 
 thing in Dorothea's mind could tend towards such an 
 issue. Here was something really to vex her about 
 Dodo : it was all very well not to accept Sir James 
 Chettam, but the idea of marrying Mr. Casaubon ! 
 Celia felt a sort of shame mingled with a sense of 
 the ludicrous. But perhaps Dodo, if she were really 
 bordering on such an extravagance, might be turned 
 away from it : experience had often shown that her 
 impressibility might be calculated on. The day was 
 damp, and they were not going to walk out, so they 
 both went up to their sitting-room ; and there Celia 
 observed that Dorothea, instead of settling down 
 with her usual diligent interest to some occupation, 
 simply leaned her elbow on an open book and looked 
 out of the window at the great cedar silvered with 
 the damp. She herself had taken up the making of 
 a toy for the curate's children, and was not going to 
 enter on any subject too precipitately. 
 
 Dorothea was in fact thinking that it was desir- 
 able 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 igno- 
 rance of what would necessarily affect her attitude 
 towards him ; but it was impossible not to shrink 
 from telling her. Dorothea accused herself of some 
 meanness in this timidity : it was always odious to 
 her to have any small fears or contrivances about 
 her actions, but at this moment she was seeking the 
 highest aid possible that she might not dread the 
 corrosiveness of Celia's pretty carnally minded prose. 
 Her reverie was broken, and the difficulty of decision 
 banished, by Celia's small and rather guttural voice 
 speaking in its usual tone^ of a remark aside or a 
 "by the by."
 
 62 MIDDLEMAECH. 
 
 " Is any one else coming to dine besides Mr. 
 Casaubon ? " 
 
 " Not that I know of." 
 
 " I hope there is some one else. Then I shall not 
 hear him eat his soup so." 
 
 " What is there remarkable about his soup-eating? " 
 
 " Eeally, Dodo, can't you hear how he scrapes his 
 spoon ? And he always blinks before he speaks. 
 I don't know whether Locke blinked, but I 'm sure 
 I am sorry for those who sat opposite to him if he 
 did." 
 
 " Celia," said Dorothea, with emphatic gravity, 
 "pray don't make any more observations of that 
 kind." 
 
 " Why not ? They are quite true," returned 
 Celia, who had her reasons for persevering, though 
 she was beginning to be a little afraid. 
 
 " Many things are true which only the commonest 
 minds observe." 
 
 " Then I think the commonest minds must be rather 
 useful. I think it is a pity Mr. Casaubon's mother 
 had not a commoner mind : she might have taught 
 him better." Celia was inwardly frightened, and 
 ready to run away, now she had hurled this light 
 javelin. 
 
 Dorothea's feelings had gathered to an avalanche, 
 and there could be no further preparation. 
 
 " It is right to tell you, Celia, that I am engaged 
 to marry Mr. Casaubon." 
 
 Perhaps Celia had never turned so pale before. 
 The paper man she was making w^ould have had 
 bis leg injured, but for her habitual care of what- 
 ever 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.
 
 MISS BROOKE. 63 
 
 *' Oh, Dodo, I hope you will be happy." Her 
 sisterly tenderness could not but surmount other 
 feelings at this moment, and her fears were the 
 fears of affection. 
 
 Dorothea was still hurt and agitated. 
 
 " It is quite decided, then ? " said Celia, in an 
 awed undertone. " And uncle knows ? " 
 
 " I have accepted Mr. Casaubon's offer. My uncle 
 brought me the letter that contained it; he knew 
 about it beforehand." 
 
 "I beg your pardon if I have said anything to 
 hurt you, Dodo," said Celia, with a slight sob. She 
 never could have thought that she should feel as 
 she did. There was something funereal in the whole 
 affair, and Mr. Casaubon seemed to be the officiating 
 clergyman, about whom it would be indecent to 
 make remarks. 
 
 " Never mind, Kitty, do not grieve. We should 
 never admire the same people. I often offend in 
 something of the same way ; I am apt to speak too 
 strongly of those who don't please me." 
 
 In spite of this magnanimity Dorothea was still 
 smarting : perhaps as much from Celia's subdued 
 astonishment as from her small criticisms. Of 
 course all the world round Tipton would be out 
 of sympathy with this marriage. Dorothea knew 
 of no one who thought as she did about life and its 
 best objects. 
 
 Nevertheless before the evening was at an end 
 she was very happy. In an hour's tSte-a-tete with 
 Mr. Casaubon she talked to him with more freedom 
 than she had ever felt before, even pouring out her 
 joy at the thought of devoting herself to him, and 
 of learning how she might best share and further 
 all his great ends. Mr. Casaubon was touched with
 
 64 MIDDLEMAUCH. 
 
 an unknown delight (what man would not have 
 been ?) at this 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, — Doro- 
 thea ! " he said, pressing her hand between his 
 hands, " this is a happiness greater than I had ever 
 imagined to be in reserve for me. That I should 
 ever meet with a mind and person so rich in the 
 mingled graces which could render marriage desir- 
 able, was far indeed from my conception. You have 
 all — nay, more than all — those qualities which I 
 have ever regarded as the characteristic excellences 
 of womanhood. The great charm of your sex is its 
 capability of an ardent self-sacrificing affection, and 
 herein we see its fitness to round and complete the 
 existence of our own. Hitherto I have known 
 few pleasures save of the severer kind : my satis- 
 factions have been those of the solitary student. I 
 have been little disposed to gather flowers that 
 would wither in my hand, but now I shall pluck 
 them with eagerness, to place them in your bosom." 
 
 No speech could have been more thoroughly hon- 
 est 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 con- 
 clude that there was no passion behind those son- 
 nets to Delia which strike us as the thin music of 
 a mandolin ? 
 
 Dorothea's faith supplied all that Mr. Casau- 
 bon's words seemed to leave unsaid : what believer 
 sees a disturbing omission or infelicity ? The text, 
 whether of prophet or of poet, expands for whatever 
 we can put into it, and even his bad grammar is 
 sublime.
 
 MISS BROOKE. 65 
 
 " I am very ignorant, — you will quite wonder at 
 my ignorance," said Dorothea. " I have so many 
 thoughts that may be quite mistaken ; and now I 
 shall be able to tell them all to you, and ask you 
 about them. But," she added, with rapid imagination 
 of Mr. Casaubon's probable feeling, " I will not trouble 
 you too much ; only when you are inclined to listen 
 to me. You must often be weary with the pursuit 
 of subjects in your own track. I shall gain enough 
 if you will take me with you there." 
 
 " How should I be able now to persevere in any 
 path without your companionship ? " said Mr. Casau- 
 bon, kissing her candid brow, and feeling that 
 heaven had vouchsafed him a blessing in every way 
 suited to his peculiar wants. He was being uncon- 
 sciously wrought upon by the charms of a nature 
 which was entirely without hidden calculations 
 either for immediate effects or for remoter ends. It 
 was this which made Dorothea so childlike, and, 
 according to some judges, so stupid, with all her 
 reputed cleverness ; as, for example, in the present 
 case of throwing herself, metaphorically speaking, at 
 Mr. Casaubon's feet, and kissing his unfashionable 
 shoe-ties as if he were a Protestant Pope. She was 
 not in the least teaching Mr. Casaubon to ask if he 
 were good enough for her, but merely asking herself 
 anxiously how she could be good enough for Mr. 
 Casaubon. Before he left the next day it had been 
 decided that the marriage should take place within 
 six weeks. Why not ? Mr. Casaubon's house was 
 ready. It was not a parsonage, but a considerable 
 mansion, with much land attached to it. The par- 
 sonage was inhabited by the curate, who did all the 
 duty except preaching the morning sermon. 
 
 VOL. I. — 6
 
 CHAPTEE VI. 
 
 " My lady's tongue is like the meadow blades, 
 That cut you stroking them with idle hand. 
 Nice cutting is her function : she divides 
 With spiritual edge the millet-seed, 
 And makes intangible savings." 
 
 As Mr. Casaubon'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 be- 
 fore him; but the lady was quick-eyed, and threw 
 a nod and a " How do you do ? " in the nick of time. 
 In spite of her shabby bonnet and very old Indian 
 shawl, it was plain that the lodge-keeper regarded 
 her as an important personage, from the low courtesy 
 which was dropped on the entrance of the small 
 phaeton. 
 
 " Well, Mrs. Fitchett, how are your fowls laying 
 now ?" said the high-coloured, dark-eyed lady, with 
 the clearest chiselled utterance. 
 
 " Pretty well for laying, madam, but they 've ta'en 
 to eating their eggs : I 've no peace o' mind with 
 'em at all." 
 
 " Oh, the cannibals ! Better sell them cheap at 
 once. What will you sell them a couple ? One 
 can't eat fowls of a bad character at a high price." 
 
 "Well, madam, half-a-crown : I could n't let 'em 
 go, not under."
 
 MISS BROOKE. 67 
 
 " Half-a-crown, these times ! Come now, — for 
 the Eector's chicken-broth 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 tumbler pigeons for them, — little 
 beauties. You must come and see them. You 
 have no tumblers among your pigeons," 
 
 " Well, 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 eggs ! 
 Don't you and Fitchett boast too much, that is 
 all ! " 
 
 The phaeton was driven onwards with the last words, 
 leaving Mrs. Fitchett laughing and shaking her head 
 slowly, with an interjectional " Sure/y, sure/^/ / " — 
 from which it might be inferred that she would have 
 found the country-side somewhat duller if the Rec- 
 tor's lady had been less free-spoken and less of a 
 skinflint. Indeed, both the farmers 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 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
 
 68 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 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 poli- 
 tics, else you would not be seeing so much of the 
 lively man. I shall inform against you : remem- 
 ber 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 tlie Whig side when old Pinker- 
 ton 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, confess ! " 
 
 " Nothing of the sort," said Mr. Brooke, smiling 
 and rubbing his eye-glasses, but really blushing a 
 little at the impeachment. " 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 / 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 
 Fawkes. See if you are not burnt in effigy this 5th 
 of November coming. Humphrey would not come 
 to quarrel with you about it, so I am come."
 
 MISS BROOKE. 69 
 
 " 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, speechify- 
 ing : there 's no excuse but being on the right side, 
 so that you can ask a blessing on your humming 
 and hawing. You will lose yourself, I forewarn 
 you. You will make a Saturday pie 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 inde- 
 pendent man. As to the Whigs, a man who goes 
 with the thinkers is 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." 
 
 " Where 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 rov- 
 ing life, and never letting his friends know his 
 address. ' 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 
 respectable. 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 poli- 
 tics," said Mr. Brooke, with an air of smiling 
 indifference, but feeling rather unpleasantly con- 
 scious that this attack of Mrs. Cadwallader's had 
 opened the defensive campaign to which certain 
 rash steps had exposed him. " Your sex are not
 
 70 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 thinkers, you know, — varium et mutahile semper, 
 — 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 — "I was going to say, poor Stoddart, you 
 know. That was what he said. You ladies are 
 always against an independent attitude, — a man's 
 caring for nothing but truth, and that sort of thing. 
 And there is 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 ? " 
 
 " Who ? 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 Whig sign-board." 
 
 Mr. Brooke again winced inwardly, 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. Cadwalla- 
 der ; " 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 pros- 
 pect of his marrying my niece," said Mr. Brooke,
 
 MISS BROOKE. 71 
 
 much relieved to see through the window that 
 Celia was coming in. 
 
 " Why not ? " said Mrs. Cadwallader, with a sharp 
 note of surprise. " It is hardly a fortnight since 
 you and I were talking 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." 
 
 " Why, whom do you mean to say that you are 
 going to let her marry ? " Mrs. Cadwallader's 
 mind was rapidly surveying 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 answering imme- 
 diately. 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 ? — this about your 
 sister's engagement ? " said Mrs. Cadwallader. 
 
 " She is engaged to marry Mr. Casaubon," said 
 Celia, resorting, as usual, to the simplest statement 
 of fact, and enjoying this opportunity of speaking 
 to the Eector'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, I suppose."
 
 72 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 " Yes ; she says Mr. Casaubon has a great souL** 
 
 " With all my heart." 
 
 " Oh, Mrs. Cadwallader, I don't think it can be 
 nice to marry a man with a great soul." 
 
 " Well, 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 I 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 him 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 thinks 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 ivas rude to Sir James sometimes ; but he is 
 so kind, he never noticed it." 
 
 " Well," said Mrs. Cadwallader, putting on her 
 shawl, and rising, as if in haste, " I must go straight 
 to Sir James and break this to him. 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 think 
 of their families in marrying. I set a bad example, 
 — married a poor clergyman, and made myself a 
 pitiable object among the De Bracys, — obliged
 
 MISS BROOKE. 73 
 
 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, I must speak to your 
 Mrs. Carter about pastry. I want to send my young 
 cook to learn of her. Poor people with four children, 
 like us, you know, can't afford to keep a good cook. 
 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 cir- 
 cumvented Mrs. Carter and driven to Freshitt Hall, 
 which was not far from her own parsonage, her hus- 
 band 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, intending 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 returned, but Mrs. Cad- 
 wallader'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 pretended to be." 
 
 It was of no use protesting against Mrs. Cadwal- 
 lader's way of putting things. 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
 
 74 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 Middleraarch on the Liberal side, and he looked 
 silly and never denied it, — talked about the inde- 
 pendent line and the usual nonsense." 
 
 " Is that all ? " said Sir James, much relieved. 
 
 " Why," 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 vulnerable to 
 reason there, — always a few grains of common- 
 sense in an ounce of miserliness. Miserliness is 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." 
 
 " What ? Brooke standing for Middlemarch ? " 
 
 " Worse than that. I really feel a little respon- 
 sible. 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 
 stuff. But these things wear out of girls. How- 
 ever, I am taken by surprise for once." 
 
 "What do you mean, Mrs. Cadwallader?" said 
 Sir James. His fear lest Miss Brooke should have 
 run away to join the Moravian Brethren, or some 
 preposterous sect unknown to good society, was a 
 little allayed by the knowledge that Mrs. Cadwal- 
 lader always made the worst of things. " What has 
 happened to Miss Brooke ? Pray speak out." 
 
 " 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,
 
 MISS BROOKE. 75 
 
 while he whipped his boot; but she soon added, 
 " Engaged to Casaubon." 
 
 Sir James let his whip fall and stooped to pick it 
 up. Perhaps his face had never before gathered so 
 much concentrated disgust as when he turned to 
 Mrs. Cadwallader and repeated, "Casaubon?" 
 
 "Even so. You know my errand now." 
 
 " Good God ! It is horrible ! He is no better than 
 a mummy ! " (The point of view has to be allowed 
 for, as that of a blooming and disappointed rival.) 
 
 " She says he is a great soul. — A great bladder 
 for dried peas to rattle in ! " said Mrs. Cadwallader. 
 
 " What business has an old bachelor like that to 
 marry ? " said Sir James. "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 off 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 him to abuse Casaubon. He will 
 even speak well of the bishop, though I tell him 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 up ! 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 
 nunnery."
 
 76 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 " Oh, on my own account — it is for Miss Brooke's 
 sake I think her friends should try to use their 
 influence." 
 
 " Well, Humphrey does n't know yet. But when 
 I tell him, you may depend on it he will say, ' Why 
 not ? Casaubon is a good fellow — and young — 
 young enough.' These charitable people never know 
 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 courting 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 
 think it exaggeration. Good-by ! " 
 
 Sir James handed Mrs. Cadwallader to the phaeton, 
 and then jumped on his horse. He was not going 
 to renounce his ride because of his friend's un- 
 pleasant news, — only to ride the faster in some 
 other direction 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 
 straightway contrived the preliminaries of another ? 
 Was there any ingenious plot, any hide-and-seek 
 course of action, which might be detected by a 
 careful telescopic watch ? Not at all : a telescope 
 might have swept the parishes of Tipton and Freshitt, 
 the whole area visited 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 vehicle had existed in the days
 
 MISS BROOKE. ^^ 
 
 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 smaller creatures 
 actively play as if they were so many animated tax- 
 pennies, a stronger lens reveals to you certain tiniest 
 hairlets which make vortices for these victims while 
 the swallower waits passively at his receipt of cus- 
 tom. 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 rurally 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 
 marrying 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 retained details 
 with the utmost accuracy, and reproduced them in 
 an excellent pickle of epigrams, which she herself 
 enjoyed the more because she believed as unques- 
 tionably in birth and no-birth as she did in game 
 and vermin. She would never have disowned any
 
 78 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 one on the ground of poverty : a De Bracy reduced 
 to take liis dinner in a basin would bave 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. Cad- 
 wallader detested high prices for everything that 
 was not paid in kind at the Eectory : 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 hardly 
 more than a sort of low comedy, which could not be 
 taken account of in a well-bred scheme of the uni- 
 verse. Let any lady who is inclined to be hard on 
 Mrs. Cadwallader inquire into the comprehensive- 
 ness 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. 
 
 With such a mind, active as phosphorus, biting 
 everything that came near 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 pre- 
 arranged 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 irrita- 
 tion which every thinker will sympathize with. 
 She was the diplomatist of Tipton and Freshitt, and 
 for anything to happen in spite of her was an
 
 MISS BROOKE. 79 
 
 offensive irregularity. As to freaks like this of 
 Miss Brooke's, Mrs. Cadwallader had no patience 
 with them, and now saw that her opinion of this 
 girl 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, " I 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 to- 
 wards 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 languish after the unattainable Sappho's apple 
 that laughs from the topmost bough, — the charms 
 
 which 
 
 " Smile like the knot of cowslips on the cliflF, 
 Not to be come at by the willing hand." 
 
 He had no sonnets to write, and it could not strike 
 him agreeably that he was not an object of prefer- 
 ence to the woman whom he had preferred. Already 
 the knowledge that Dorothea had chosen Mr. Casau- 
 bon had bruised his attachment and relaxed its hold. 
 Although Sir James was a sportsman, he had some
 
 8o MIDDLEMARCa 
 
 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. 
 
 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 re- 
 joicing 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 show- 
 ing too much awkwardness. He really did not like 
 it : giving up Dorothea was very painful to him ; 
 but there was something in the resolve to make 
 this visit forthwith and conquer all show of feeling, 
 which was a sort of file-biting and counter-irritant. 
 And without his disthictly recognizing the impulse, 
 there certainly was present in him the sense that 
 Celia would be there, and that he should pay her 
 more attention than he had done before.
 
 MISS BROOKE. 8i 
 
 "We mortals, men and women, devour many a dis- 
 appointment 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 hurts — not to 
 hurt others. 
 
 VOL. 1. — 6
 
 CHAPTEE VII. 
 
 Piacer e popone 
 Vuol la sua stagione. 
 
 Italian Proverb. 
 
 Mr. Casaubon, 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 My- 
 thologies — naturally made him look forward the 
 more eagerly to the happy termination of court- 
 ship. But he had deliberately incurred the hin- 
 drance, 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 studi- 
 ous labour with the play of female fancy, 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 
 regions baptism by immersion could only be per- 
 formed symbolically, so Mr. Casaubon found that 
 sprinkling was the utmost approach to a plunge 
 which his stream would afford him ; and he con- 
 cluded that the poets had much exaggerated the 
 force of masculine passion. Nevertheless, he ob- 
 served with pleasure that INIiss Brooke showed an 
 ardent submissive affection which promised to fulfil 
 his most agreeable previsions of marriage. It had
 
 MISS BROOKE. 83 
 
 once or twice crossed his mind 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 I 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 read 
 Latin and Greek aloud to you, as Milton's daughters 
 did to their father, without understanding what they 
 read ? " 
 
 " 1 fear that would be wearisome to you," said 
 Mr. Casaubon, smiling ; " and, indeed, if I remember 
 rightly, the young women you have mentioned re- 
 garded 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 
 minister to such a father ; and in the second place 
 they might have studied privately and taught them- 
 selves 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. Cer- 
 tainly 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 seized this as a precious permission. 
 She would not have asked Mr. Casaubon at once to 
 teach her the languages, dreading of all things to 
 be tiresome instead of helpful ; but it was not 
 entirely out of devotion to her future husband that
 
 84 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 she wished to know Latin and Greek. Those pro- 
 vinces of masculine knowledge seemed to her a 
 standing-ground from which all truth could be 
 seen more truly. As it was, she constantly doubted 
 her own conclusions, because she felt her own 
 ignorance : 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 neces- 
 sary — 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 certainly very naive with 
 all her alleged cleverness. Celia, whose mind 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 sclioolmaster of 
 little boys, or rather like a lover, to whom a mis- 
 tress's elementary ignorance and difficulties have a 
 touching fitness. Few scholars would have dis- 
 liked teaching the alphabet under such circum- 
 stances. But Dorothea herself was a little shocked 
 and discouraged at her own stupidity, and the 
 answers she got to some timid questions about the 
 value of the Greek accents gave her a painful sus- 
 picion that here indeed there might be secrets not 
 capable of explanation to a woman's reason.
 
 MISS BROOKE. 85 
 
 Mr. Brooke had no doubt on that point, and 
 expressed himself with his usual strength upon it 
 one day that he came into the library while the 
 reading was going forward. 
 
 " Well, but now, Casaubon, such deep studies, 
 classics, mathematics, that kind of thing, are too 
 taxing for a woman, — too taxing, you know." 
 
 " Dorothea is learning to read the characters sim- 
 ply," said Mr. Casaubon, evading the question. 
 " She had the very considerate thought of saving 
 my eyes." 
 
 " Ah, well, without understanding, you know, — 
 that may not be so bad. But there is a lightness 
 about the feminine mind — a touch and go — 
 music, the fine arts, that kind of thing — they 
 should study those up to a certain point, women 
 should ; but in a light way, you know. A woman 
 should be able to sit down and play you or sing 
 you a good old English tune. That is what I like ; 
 though I have heard most things, — been at the 
 opera in Vienna : Gluck, Mozart, everything of that 
 sort. But I 'm a conservative 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 feminine tine 
 art must be forgiven her, considering the small 
 tinkling and smearing in which they chiefly con- 
 sisted at that dark period. She smiled and looked 
 up at her betrothed with grateful eyes. If he had 
 always been asking her to play the " Last Eose of 
 Summer," she would have required much resigna- 
 tion. " He says there is only an old harpsichord 
 at Lowick, and it is covered with books."
 
 86 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 " 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 strung — that kind of thing, you know 
 ■ — will not do." 
 
 " I never could look on it in the light of a recrea- 
 tion to have my ears teased with measured noises," 
 said Mr. Casaubon. " A tune much iterated 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 accom- 
 pany solemn celebrations, and even to serve as an 
 educating intiuenco according to the ancient con- 
 ception, I say nothing, for with these we are not 
 immediately concerned." 
 
 " No ; but music of that sort I should enjoy," 
 said Dorothea. " When we were coming home 
 from Lausanne, my uncle took us to hear the great 
 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 take 
 things more quietly, eh, Dorothea ? " 
 
 He ended with a smile, not wishing to hurt his 
 niece, but really 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, tl;e 
 match is good. I should have been travelling out
 
 MISS BROOKE. 87 
 
 of my brief to have hindered it, let Mrs. Cad- 
 wallader say what she will. He is pretty certain 
 to be a bishop, is Casaubon. That was a very sea- 
 sonable pamphlet of his on the Catholic Question : 
 a deanery at least. They owe him a deanery." 
 
 And here I must vindicate a claim to philosophi- 
 cal 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 striking opportunity for pointing 
 out that his heroes did not foresee the history of 
 the world, or even their own actions ? -^ For exam- 
 ple, that Henry 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 candles, had no idea 
 of future gentlemen measuring 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 I make a further remark per- 
 haps less warranted by precedent, — namely, that 
 if he had foreknown his speech, it might not have 
 made any great difference. To think with plea- 
 sure of his niece's husband having a large ecclesias- 
 tical 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.
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 " Oh, rescue her ! I am her brother now, 
 Ana you her father. EA'ery gentle maid 
 Should have a guardian in each gentleman." 
 
 It was wonderful to Sir James Chettam how well 
 he continued to like going to the Grange after he 
 had once encountered the difficulty of seeing Doro- 
 thea 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 
 first approached her, and he remained conscious 
 throughout the interview of hiding uneasiness ; but, 
 good as he was, it must be owned that his uneasi- 
 ness 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, Casau- 
 bon ; 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 accord- 
 ing to nature, 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 culpable ; he ought to have hiu-
 
 MISS BROOKE. 89 
 
 dered it. Who could speak to him ? Something 
 might be done perhaps even now, at least to de- 
 fer the marriage. On his way home he turned 
 into the Eectory and asked for Mr. Cadwallader. 
 Happily, the Eector was at home, and his visitor 
 was shown into the study, where all the fishing- 
 tackle hung. But he himself was in a little room 
 adjoining, at work with his turning 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 expres- 
 sion of their faces. 
 
 Mr. Cadwallader was a large man, with full lips 
 and a sweet smile; very plain and rough in his ex- 
 terior, but with that solid imperturbable ease and 
 good-humour which is infectious, and like great 
 grassy hills in the sunshine, quiets even an irri- 
 tated 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 pur- 
 posely to exaggerate as he answered, — 
 
 " It is only this conduct of Brooke's. I really 
 think somebody should speak to him." 
 
 " What ? meaning to stand ? " said Mr. Cadwal- 
 lader, going on with the arrangement of the reels 
 which he had just been turning. " I hardly think 
 he means it. But where 's the harm, if he likes it ? 
 Any one who objects to Whiggery 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."
 
 90 MTDDLEMARCH. 
 
 "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 exam- 
 ine the sole of his boot with much bitterness. " I 
 mean this marriage. I mean his letting that bloom- 
 ing young girl marry Casaubon." 
 
 " What is the matter with Casaubon ? I see no 
 harm in him — if the girl likes him." 
 
 " She is too young to knov: what she likes. Her 
 guardian ought to interfere. He ought not to allow 
 the thing to be done in this headlong manner. I 
 wonder a man like you, Cadwallader, — a man with 
 daughters, — can look at the affair with indiffer- 
 ence : and with such a heart as yours ! Do think 
 seriously about it." 
 
 "lam not joking; I am as serious as possible," 
 said the Eector, with a provoking little inward laugh. 
 " You are as bad as Elinor. She has been wanting 
 me to go and lecture 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, indig- 
 nantly. " 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 legs ! " 
 
 " Confound you 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." 
 
 "You! it was easy enough for a woman to love 
 you. But this is no question of beauty. I don't 
 like Casaubon." This was Sir James's strongest
 
 MISS BROOKE. 91 
 
 way of implying that he thought ill of a man's 
 character. 
 
 " Why ? what do you know agaiust him ? " said 
 the Eector, laying down his reels, and putting his 
 thumbs into his armholes 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 last 
 he said, — 
 
 " Now, Cadwallader, has he got any heart ? " 
 
 "Well, yes. I don't mean of the melting sort, 
 but a sound kernel, that 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. " I 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 him. And I think when a girl is so 
 young as Miss Brooke is, her friends ought to inter- 
 fere 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,
 
 92 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 it is not that. I should feel just the same if I were 
 Miss Brooke's brother or uncle." 
 
 " Well, 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 talking about," said the 
 wife. " But you will make no impression on Hum- 
 phrey. As long as the fish rise to his bait, every- 
 body is what he ought to be. Bless you, Casaubon 
 has got a trout-stream, and does not care about fish- 
 ing in it himself : could there be a better fellow ? " 
 
 " Well, there is something in that," said the 
 Eector, with his quiet, inward laugh. " It is a very 
 good quality in a man to have a trout-stream." 
 
 " But seriously," said Sir James, whose vexation 
 had not yet spent itself, " don't you think the 
 Rector might do some good by speaking ? " 
 
 " Oh, I told you beforehand what he would say," 
 answered Mrs. Cadwallader, lifting up her eye- 
 brows. " I have done what I could : I wash my 
 hands of the marriage." 
 
 "In the first place," said the Eector, 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 into any mould, but he won't 
 keep shape."
 
 MISS BROOKE. 93 
 
 " He might keep shape long enough to defer the 
 marriage," said Sir James. 
 
 " But, my dear Chettam, why should I use my 
 influence to Casauhon'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 Casauhon. I don't care about his Xisuthrus 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 nothing to 
 say to each other." 
 
 "What has that to do with Miss Brooke's marry- 
 ing 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 lit- 
 tle boy, he made an abstract of ' Hop 0' 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 with."
 
 94 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 " Well, he is what Miss Brooke likes," said the 
 Eector. " 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 cloth. 
 Some Kadical fellow speechifying at Middlemarch 
 said Casaubon was the learned straw-chopping 
 incumbent, and Freke was the brick-and-mortar 
 incumbent, and I was the angling incumbent. And 
 upon my word, I don't see that one is worse or bet- 
 ter than the other." The Eector 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 his good disposition that he did not slacken 
 at all in his intention of carrying 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 vanity makes us witty. She was 
 now enough aware of Sir James's position with 
 regard to her to appreciate the rectitude of his per- 
 severance 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 some- 
 thing even in her present happiness. Perhaps she
 
 MISS BROOKE. 95 
 
 gave to Sir James Chettam's cottages all the interest 
 she could spare from Mr. Casaubou, or rather from 
 the symphony of hopeful dreams, admiring trust, 
 and passionate self-devotion which that learned 
 gentleman had set playing in her soul. Hence it 
 happened that in the good baronet's succeeding 
 visits, while he was beginning to pay small atten- 
 tions to Celia, he found himself talking 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 IX. 
 
 " 1st Gent. An ancient land in ancient oracles 
 
 Is called ' law-thirsty : ' all the struggle there 
 "Was after order and a perfect rule. 
 Pray, where lie such lands now ? . . . 
 2d Gent. Why, where they lay of old — inhuman souls." 
 
 Me. Casaubon's behaviour about settlements was 
 highly satisfactory to Mr. Brooke, and the prelimi- 
 naries 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 dic- 
 tates before marriage 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 gray 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 brother 
 had put him in possession of the manor also. It 
 had a small park, with a fine old oak here and 
 there, and an avenue of limes towards the southwest 
 front, with a sunk fence between park and pleasure- 
 ground, so that from the drawing-room windows the 
 glance swept uninterruptedly along a slope of green-
 
 MISS BUOOKE. 97 
 
 sward 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 confined, the flower- 
 beds showed no very careful tendance, and large 
 clumps of trees, chiefly of sombre yews, had risen 
 high, not ten yards from the windows. The build- 
 ing, of greenish stone, was in the old English style, 
 not ugly, but small-windowed and melancholy-look- 
 ing : 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 ever- 
 greens in a stillness without sunshine, the house 
 too had an air of autumnal decline, and Mr. Casau- 
 bon, 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 pil- 
 lared portico, and the terrace full of flowers, Sir 
 James smiling above them like a prince issuing 
 from his enchantment in a rose-bush, with a hand- 
 kerchief swiftly metamorphosed from the most deli- 
 cately odorous 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 
 weather-worn gentlemen sometimes prefer in a wife ; 
 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 
 
 VOL. I. — 7
 
 98 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 grounds all that she could wish : the dark book- 
 shelves in the long library, the carpets and curtains 
 with colours subdued by time, the curious old maps 
 and bird's-eye views on the walls of the corridor, 
 with here and there an old vase below, had no oppres- 
 sion 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 classical 
 nudities and smirking Eenaissance-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. Casau- 
 bon'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: this 
 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 met grate- 
 fully, but saw nothing to alter. His efforts at ex- 
 act courtesy and formal tenderness had no defect 
 for her. She filled up all blanks with unmanifested 
 perfections, interpreting him as she interpreted the 
 works of Providence, and accounting for seeming 
 discords by her own deafness to the higher harmo- 
 nies. 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
 
 MISS BROOKE. 99 
 
 me by pointing ont which room you would like to 
 have as your boudoir," said Mr. Casaubon, showing 
 that his views of the womanly nature were suffi- 
 ciently large to include that requirement. 
 
 "It is very kind of you to think of that," said 
 Dorothea, " but I assure you 1 would rather have 
 all those matters decided for me. I 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 wishing any- 
 thing else." 
 
 " Oh, Dodo," said Celia, " will you not have the 
 bow- windowed room upstairs ? " 
 
 Mr. Casaubon led the way thither. The bow- 
 window looked down the avenue of limes ; the fur- 
 niture 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 book-case con- 
 tained duodecimo volumes of polite literature in calf, 
 completing the furniture. 
 
 " 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, — I 
 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."
 
 loo MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 " It was," he said, with his slow bend of the head. 
 
 " This 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 imagina- 
 tion, that he came of a family who had all been 
 young in their time, — the ladies wearing necklaces. 
 
 "It is a peculiar face," said Dorothea, looking 
 closely. " Those deep gray 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." 
 
 " No. And they were not alike in their lot." 
 
 " You did not mention her to me," said Dorothea. 
 
 "My aunt made an unfortunate 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 admire the view. The sun had lately 
 pierced the gray, and the avenue of limes cast 
 shadows. 
 
 "Shall we not walk in the garden now?" said 
 Dorothea. 
 
 " And you wculd like to see the church, you 
 know," said Mr. Brooke. " It is a droll little church.
 
 MISS BROOKE. roi 
 
 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, gilly- 
 flowers, that sort of thing." 
 
 " Yes, please," said Dorothea, looking at Mr. Casau- 
 bon, "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 hanging 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 ? " 
 
 " There 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 conversa- 
 tion did not lead to any question about his family,
 
 102 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 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 
 s'ne 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 whom she could like, irrespective of 
 principle. 
 
 Mr. Tucker was invaluable in their walk ; and 
 perhaps Mr. Casaubon had not been without fore- 
 sight on this head, the curate being able to answer 
 all Dorothea's questions about the villagers and the 
 other parishioners. Everybody, he assured her, was 
 well off in Lowick : not a cottager in those double 
 cottages at a low rent but kept a pig, and the strips 
 of garden at the back were well tended. The small 
 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 
 Dorotljea^ ijidignantly. *'Are kings such monsters
 
 MISS BROOKE. 103 
 
 th.at a wish like that must be reckoned a royal 
 virtue ? " 
 
 "And if he wished them a skinny 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 subauditum ; 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 glanced over the possibility, which she 
 would have preferred, of finding that her home 
 would be in a parish 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 com- 
 plete devotion to Mr. Casaubon' s aims, 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 re-entering 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
 
 I04 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 few ways of making my life good for anything. 
 Of course, my notions of usefulness 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 yearning 
 unfulfilled." 
 
 " Indeed, I believe that," said Dorothea, earnestly. 
 "Do not suppose that I am sad." 
 
 " 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 heredi- 
 tary 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. Mr. Brooke, who 
 was walking in front with Celia, turned his head, 
 and said, — 
 
 " Who is that youngster, Casaubon ? " 
 
 They had come very near when Mr. Casaubon 
 answered, — 
 
 " That is a young relative of mine, a second cousin : 
 the grandson, in 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 gray eyes 
 rather near together, a delicate irregular nose with
 
 MISS BROOKE. 105 
 
 a little ripple in it, and hair falling 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 charmed 
 with this 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, tak- 
 ing up the sketch-book and turning 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 wath 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 hrio." 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, fine art, 
 and so on. But you took to drawing plans ; you 
 don't understand 'inorhidezza, and that kind of thing.
 
 io6 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 You will come to my house, I hope, and I will show 
 you what I did in this way," he continued, turning 
 to young Ladislaw, wlio 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 voice ! 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 engravings to- 
 gether," 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 indolence. 
 I was too indolent, you know : else I might have 
 been anywhere at one time." 
 
 " That is a seasonable admonition," said Mr. 
 Casaubon ; " but now we 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 amusement 
 which increased as he went on drawing, till at last 
 he threw back his head and laughed aloud. Partly 
 It was the reception of his own artistic production
 
 MISS BROOKE. 107 
 
 that tickled him ; partly the notion of his 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 comi- 
 cality, and had no mixture of sneering and self- 
 exaltation. 
 
 " What 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 doubt- 
 ful. On leaving Rugby he declined to go to an 
 English university, where I would gladly have 
 placed him, and chose what I must consider the 
 anomalous course of studying at Heidelberg. And 
 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 profession." 
 
 "He has no means but what you furnish, I 
 suppose." 
 
 " I have always given him and his friends reason 
 to understand that I would furnish in moderation 
 what was necessary for providing him with a schol- 
 arly education, and launching him respectably. I 
 am therefore bound to fulfil the expectation so 
 raised," said Mr. Casaubon, putting his conduct 
 in the light of mere rectitude : a trait of delicacy 
 which Dorothea noticed with admiration. 
 
 " He has a thirst for travelling ; perhaps he may 
 turn out a Bruce or a Mungo Park," said Mr. Brooke. 
 " I had a notion of that myself at one time." 
 
 "No, he has no bent towards exploration, or the
 
 io8 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 enlargement of our geognosis : that would be a 
 special purpose which I could recognize with some 
 approbation, though without felicitating him on a 
 career which so often ends in premature and vio- 
 lent death. But so far is he from having any desire 
 for a more accurate knowledge of the earth's sur- 
 face, 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 indisposition to thorough- 
 ness of all kinds, which would be a bad augury 
 for him in any profession, civil or sacred, even were 
 he so far submissive to ordinary rule as to choose 
 one." 
 
 " Perhaps he has conscientious scruples founded 
 on his own unfitness," said Dorothea, who was 
 interesting herself in finding a favourable expla- 
 nation. " Because the law and medicine should be 
 very serious professions to undertake, should they 
 not ? People's lives and fortunes depend on them." 
 
 " Doubtless ; but I fear that my young relative 
 Will Ladislaw is chiefly determined in his aversion 
 to these callings by a dislike to steady application, 
 and to that kind of acquirement which is needful 
 instrumentally, but is not charming or immediately 
 inviting to self-indulgent taste. I have insisted to 
 him on what Aristotle has stated with admirable 
 brevity, that for the achievement of any work 
 regarded as an end there must be a prior exer- 
 cise of many energies or acquired facilities of a
 
 MISS BROOKE. 109 
 
 secondary order, demanding patience. I have 
 pointed 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 him- 
 self 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 else he wants 
 to go ? " 
 
 " Yes ; I have agreed to furnish him with moder- 
 ate 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, look- 
 ing up at Mr. Casaubon with delight. " It is noble. 
 After all, people may really have in them some voca- 
 tion which is not quite plain to themselves, may 
 they not ? They may seem idle and weak because 
 they are growing. 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, 
 taking 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 : clever- 
 ness seemed to her more pitiable than ever.
 
 CHAPTEE X. 
 
 He had catched a great cold, had he had no other clothes to wear 
 than the skin of a bear not yet killed. — Fuller. 
 
 Young Ladislaw did not pay that visit to which 
 Mr. Brooke had invited 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 declined 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 confidently await those mes- 
 sages 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 exces- 
 sively fond of wine, but he Iiad 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 re- 
 sulted from these measures ; and the effects of the 
 opium had convinced him that there was an en- 
 tire dissimilarity 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
 
 MISS BROOKE. ni 
 
 fortune at one time was but a grand presentiment. 
 We know what a masquerade all development is, 
 and what effective shapes may be disguised in help- 
 less embryos. In fact, the world is full of hopeful 
 analogies and handsome dubious eggs called possi- 
 bilities. Will saw clearly enough the pitiable 
 instances of long incubation producing no chick, 
 and but for gratitude would have laughed at Casau- 
 bon, whose plodding application, rows of note-books, 
 and small taper of learned theory exploring the 
 tossed ruins 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 self- 
 conceit nor in humility, but in a power to make 
 or do, not anything 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 Doro- 
 thea Mr. Casaubon had been the mere occasion 
 which had set alight the fine inflammable material 
 of her youthful illusions, does it follow that he was 
 fairly represented in the minds of those less impas- 
 sioned personages who have hitherto delivered their 
 judgments concerning him ? I protest against any 
 absolute conclusion, any prejudice 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,
 
 112 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 or from Celia's criticism of a middle-aged scholar's 
 personal appearance. I am not sure that the great- 
 est man of his age, if ever that solitary superlative 
 existed, could escape these unfavourable reflections 
 of himself in various small mirrors ; and even Milton, 
 looking for his portrait in a spoon, must submit to 
 have the facial angle of a bumpkin. Moreover, if 
 Mr. Casaubon, speaking for himself, has rather a 
 chilling rhetoric, it is not therefore certain that 
 there is no good work or fine feelingf in him. Did 
 not an immortal physicist and interpreter of hiero- 
 glyphs write detestable verses ? Has the theory 
 of the solar system been advanced by graceful man- 
 ners 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, which 
 will one day be too heavy for him, and bring his 
 heart to its final pause. Doubtless his lot is im- 
 portant in his own eyes ; and the chief reason that 
 we think he asks too large a place in our considera- 
 tion 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 think 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
 
 MISS BROOKE. 113 
 
 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. Casauhon did not 
 find his spirits rising ; nor did the contemplation of 
 that matrimonial garden-scene, where, as all ex- 
 perience showed, the path was to be bordered 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 con- 
 trary ; but knowing classical passages, we find, is a 
 mode of motion, which explains why they leave so 
 little extra force for their personal application. 
 
 Poor Mr. Casauhon had imagined that his long 
 studious bachelorhood had stored up for him a com- 
 pound interest of enjoyment, and that large drafts 
 on his affections would not fail to be honoured ; for 
 we all of us, grave or light, get our thoughts en- 
 tangled 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 circum- 
 stances were unusually happy : there was nothing 
 external by which he could account for a certain 
 blankness of sensibility which came over him just 
 
 VOL. I. — 8
 
 114 MIDDLEMAECH. 
 
 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 toil- 
 ing in the morass of authorship without seeming 
 nearer to the goal. And his was that worst loneli- 
 ness which would shrink from sympathy. He could 
 not but wish that Dorothea should think him not 
 less happy than the world would expect her success- 
 ful suitor to be ; and in relation to his authorship 
 he leaned on her young trust and veneration, he 
 liked to draw forth her fresh interest in listening, 
 as a means of encouragement to himself : in talking 
 to her he presented all his performance and inten- 
 tion with the reflected confidence of the pedagogue, 
 and rid himself for the time of that chilling ideal 
 audience which crowded his laborious uncreative 
 hours with the vaporous pressure of Tartarean shades. 
 For to Dorothea, after that toy-box history of the 
 world adapted to young ladies which had made the 
 chief part of her education, Mr. Casaubon's talk 
 about his great book was full of new vistas ; and 
 this sense of revelation, this surprise of a nearer 
 introduction to Stoics and Alexandrians, as people 
 who had ideas not totally unlike her own, kept in 
 abeyance for the time her usual eagerness for a 
 binding theory which could bring her own life and 
 doctrine into strict connection with that amazing 
 past, and give the remotest sources of knowledge 
 some bearing on her actions. That more complete 
 teaching would come — Mr. Casaubon would tell 
 her all that : she was looking forward to higher ini- 
 tiation in ideas, as she was looking forward to mar-
 
 MISS BROOKE. 115 
 
 riage, and blending her dim conceptions of both. It 
 would be a great mistake to suppose that Dorothea 
 would have cared about any share in Mr. Casaubon's 
 learning as mere accomplishment ; for though opin- 
 ion in the neighbourhood of Freshitt and Tipton 
 had pronounced her clever, that epithet would not 
 have described her to circles in whose more precise 
 vocabulary cleverness implies mere aptitude for 
 knowing and doing, apart from character. All her 
 eagerness for acquirement lay within that full cur- 
 rent of sympathetic motive in which her ideas and 
 impulses 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 as 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 flat- 
 ness, he could never refer it to any slackening of 
 her affectionate interest. 
 
 The season was mild enough to encourage the 
 project of extending the wedding journey as far as 
 Eome, and Mr. Casaubon was anxious for this 
 because he wished to inspect some manuscripts in 
 the Vatican. 
 
 " I still regret that your sister is not to accompany
 
 ii6 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 us," he said one morning, some time after it had 
 been ascertained 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 " I should feel more at liberty " grated 
 on Dorothea. For the first time in speaking to Mr. 
 Casaubon she coloured from annoyance. 
 
 " You must have misunderstood me very much," 
 she said, " if you think I 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 you had a lady as your com- 
 panion, 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 Tan- 
 tripp will be a sufficient 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 Dorotliea was glad of a reason for 
 moving away at once on the sound of the bell, as if
 
 MISS BROOKE. 117 
 
 she needed more than her usual amount of prepa- 
 ration. She was ashamed of being irritated from 
 some cause she could not define even to herself ; 
 for though she had no intention to be untruthful, 
 her reply had not touched the real hurt within her. 
 Mr. Casaubou's words had been quite reasonable, 
 yet they had brought a vague 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 know- 
 ing that he needs me less 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-gray dress, 
 — the simple lines of her dark -brown hair parted 
 over her brow and coiled massively behind, in keep- 
 ing with the entire absence from her manner and 
 expression of all search after mere effect. Some- 
 times 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 looking out 
 from her tower into the clear air ; but these inter- 
 vals of quietude made the energy of her speech and 
 emotion the more remarked when some outward 
 appeal had touched her. 
 
 She was naturally the subject of many observa- 
 tions 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 talking was done in duos and trios 
 more or less inharmonious. There was the newly 
 elected mayor of Middlemarch, who happened to
 
 ii8 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 be a manufacturer; the philanthropic banker his 
 brother-in-law, who predominated so much in the 
 town that some called him a Methodist, others a 
 hypocrite, according to the resources of their vo- 
 cabulary ; and there were various professional men. 
 In fact, Mrs. Cadwallader said that Brooke was 
 beginning to treat the Middlemarchers, and that 
 she preferred the farmers at the tithe-dinner, who 
 drank her health unpretentiously, and were not 
 ashamed of their grandfathers' furniture. For in 
 that part of the country, before Keform had done its 
 notable part in developing the political conscious- 
 ness, there was a clearer distinction 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 God ! " said Mr. Standish, 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 bearings, stamping the speech of a 
 man who held a good position. 
 
 Mr. Bulstrode, the banker, seemed to be addressed, 
 but that gentleman disliked coarseness and profanity, 
 and merely bowed. The remark 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 distin- 
 guished appearance.
 
 MISS BROOKE. 119 
 
 " Yes, but not my style of woman : I 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 genial. " And, by God, 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," said Mr. Bulstrode. " I 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 seemed to have been detrimental to his 
 theology. " And I like them blond, with a cer- 
 tain 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 marrying 
 man I should choose Miss Vincy before either of 
 them." 
 
 " Well, 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 going to incur the certainty of being 
 accepted by the woman he would choose. 
 
 The Miss Vincy who had the honour of being 
 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 manufacturer, unless 
 it were on a public occasion. The feminine part 
 of the company included none whom Lady Chet-
 
 120 MLDDLEMARCH. 
 
 tain or Mrs. Cadwallader could object to; for Mrs. 
 Kenfrew, the colonel's widow, was not only unex- 
 ceptionable in point of breeding, but also interest- 
 ing on the ground of her complaint, which puzzled 
 the doctors, and seemed clearly a case wherein the 
 fulness of professional knowledge might need the 
 supplement of quackery. Lady Chettam, who at- 
 tributed her own remarkable health to home-made 
 bitters united with constant medical attendance, 
 entered with much exercise of the imagination in- 
 to Mrs. Eenfrew's account of symptoms, and into 
 the amazing futility in her case of all strengthen- 
 ing medicines. 
 
 " Where can all the strength of those medicines 
 go, my dear?" said the mild but stately dowager, 
 turning to Mrs. Cadwallader reflectively, when Mrs. 
 Eenfrew's attention was called away. 
 
 "It strengthens the disease," said the Eector's 
 wife, much too well-born not to be an amateur in 
 medicine. " Everything depends on the constitu- 
 tion : some people make fat, some blood, and some 
 bile, — that 's my view of the matter ; and what- 
 ever they take is a sort of grist to the mill." 
 
 " Then 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 is 
 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. Eenfrew — that is what 
 I think. Dropsy ! There is no swelling yet, — it 
 is inward. I should say she ought to take drying 
 medicines, should n't you? — or a dry hot-air bath. 
 Many things might be tried of a drying nature."
 
 MISS BROOKE. 121 
 
 " 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 charm- 
 ing woman, not so 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 con- 
 stitution," said Lady Chettam, 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 this time that girl will 
 hate him. She looks up to him 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 ? " 
 
 " The truth ? He is as bad as the wrong physic, — 
 nasty 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 some- 
 thing exact about Mr. Casaubon's disadvantages. 
 "However, James will hear nothing against Miss 
 Brooke. He says she is the mirror of women still." 
 
 " That is a generous make-believe of his. Depend 
 upon it, he likes little Celia better, and she appre- 
 ,ciates him. I hope you like my little Celia ? " 
 
 " Certainly ; she is fonder of geraniums, and 
 seems more docile, though not so line a figure.
 
 122 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 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 Lyd- 
 gates of Northumberland, 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 unfailing ; I never knew him wrong. He 
 was coarse and butcher-like, but he knew my con- 
 stitution. It was a loss to me, his going off so 
 suddenly. Dear me, what a very animated con- 
 versation Miss Brooke seems to be having with 
 this Mr. Lydgate ! " 
 
 " She is talking 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 treat- 
 ing fever on a new plan. 
 
 Mr. Lydgate had the medical accomplishment of 
 looking perfectly grave 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, especially in a
 
 MISS BROOKE. 123 
 
 certain careless refinement about his toilet and 
 utterance. Yet Lady Chettam gathered much con- 
 fidence 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 
 think so " with an air of so much deference accom- 
 panying the insight of agreement, that she formed 
 the most cordial opinion of his talents. 
 
 " I am quite pleased with your protege," she said 
 to Mr. Brooke before going away. 
 
 " My protege ? — dear me ! — who is that ? " said 
 Mr. Brooke. 
 
 " This young Lydgate, the new doctor. He seems 
 to me to understand his profession admirably. " 
 
 " Oh, Lydgate ! he is not my protege, 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 Brous- 
 sais ; 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- 
 tam, and had returned to be civil 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 sickly air. " I, for my part, hail
 
 124 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 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 
 him to try experiments on your hospital patients, 
 and kill a few people for charity, I have no objec- 
 tion 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, — an experiment, you know, " 
 said Mr. Brooke, nodding towards the lawyer. 
 
 " Oh, if you talk in that sense ! " 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 
 jElorid man, who would have served for a study of 
 flesh in striking contrast with the Franciscan tints 
 of Mr. Bulstrode. " It 's an uncommonly danger- 
 ous thing to be left without any padding against 
 the shafts of disease, as somebody said, — and I 
 think it a very good expression 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 introduc- 
 tion to Miss Brooke, whose youthful bloom, with 
 her approaching marriage to that faded scholar, 
 and her interest in matters sociallv useful, gave 
 her the piquancy of an unusual combination. 
 
 " She is a good creature — that fine girl — but a
 
 MISS BROOKE. 125 
 
 little too earnest," 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 Eome.
 
 CHAPTEE XL 
 
 But deeds and language such as men do use, 
 And persons such as comedy would choose, 
 When she would show an image of the times, 
 And sport with human follies, not with crimes. 
 
 Ben Jonson. 
 
 Lydgate, in fact, was already conscious of being 
 fascinated by a woman strikingly 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 ought to 
 produce the effect of exquisite music. " Plain 
 women he regarded as he did the other severe facts 
 of life, to be faced with philosophy and investi- 
 gated by science. But Eosamond 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 remain- 
 ing a bachelor will usually depend on her resolu- 
 tion 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 married : but this learned gen- 
 tleman was possessed of a fortune ; he had assem- 
 bled his voluminous notes, and had made that sort
 
 MISS BROOKE. 127 
 
 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 perturbation. But Lyd- 
 gate was young, poor, ambitious. He had his 
 half-century before him instead of behind him, 
 and he had come to Middlemarch bent on doing 
 many things that were not directly fitted to make 
 his fortune or even secure him a good income. To 
 a man under such circumstances, taking a wife is 
 something more than a question of adornment, 
 however highly he may rate this ; and Lydgate 
 was disposed to give it the first place among wifely 
 functions. To his taste, guided by a single con- 
 versation, here was the point on which Miss 
 Brooke would be found wanting, notwithstanding 
 her undeniable beauty. She did not look at things 
 from the proper feminine angle. The society of 
 such women was about as relaxing as going from 
 your work to teach the second form, instead of 
 reclining 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 quali- 
 ties of the woman who had attracted this young 
 surgeon. But any one watching keenly the stealthy 
 convergence of human lots, sees a slow preparation 
 of effects from one life on another, which tells like 
 a calculated irony on the indifference or the frozen 
 stare with which we look at our unintroduced 
 neighbour. Destiny stands by sarcastic with our 
 dramatis persona) folded in her hand. 
 
 Old provincial society had its share of this
 
 128 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 subtle movement: had not only its striking down- 
 falls, 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 
 shifting the boundaries of social intercourse, and 
 begetting new consciousness of interdependence. 
 Some slipped a little downward, some got higher 
 footing : people denied aspirates, gained wealth, 
 and fastidious gentlemen stood for boroughs ; some 
 were caught in political currents, some in ecclesi- 
 astical, and perhaps found themselves surprisingly 
 grouped in consequence ; while a few personages 
 or families that stood with rocky firmness amid all 
 this fluctuation, 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 con- 
 nection, — 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 blamelessly afar 
 from the civic mind, gathered the faultiness of closer 
 acquaintanceship. Settlers, too, came from distant 
 counties, some with an alarming novelty of skill, 
 others with an offensive advantage in cunning. 
 In fact, much the same sort of movement and mix- 
 ture 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 start- 
 ing-point ; though lo, as a maiden apparently be- 
 guiled by attractive merchandise, was the reverse 
 of Miss Brooke, and in this respect perhaps bore 
 more resemblance to Eosamond Vincy, who had 
 excelliiiit taste in costume, with that nymph-like
 
 MISS BROOKE. 129 
 
 figure and pure blondness which give the largest- 
 range to choice in 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 exam- 
 ple : no pupil, she said, exceeded that young lady 
 for mental acquisition and propriety of speech, 
 while her musical execution was quite exceptional. 
 We cannot help the way 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 Eosamond 
 would have been enough with most judges to dis- 
 pel any prejudice excited by Mrs. Lemon's praise. 
 
 Lydgate could not be long in Middlemarch with- 
 out having that agreeable vision, or even without 
 making the acquaintance of the Vincy family ; for 
 though Mr. Peacock, 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 had many patients among their con- 
 nections and acquaintances. For who of any con- 
 sequence in Middlemarch was not connected or at 
 least acquainted with the Vincy s ? They were old 
 manufacturers, 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 Mr. Bulstrode, who, 
 however, as a man not born in the town, and alto- 
 gether of dimly known origin, was considered to 
 
 VOL. I. — 9
 
 I30 MIDDLEMAUCH. 
 
 have done well in uniting himself with a real 
 Middlemarch family ; on the other hand, Mr. 
 Vincy had descended a little, 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. Feath- 
 erstone, 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, had, from dif- 
 ferent causes, given an especially good reception to 
 his successor, who had raised some partisanship as 
 well as discussion. Mr. Wrench, medical attend- 
 ant to the Vincy family, very early had grounds 
 for thinking lightly of Lydgate's professional dis- 
 cretion, 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 him to be hasty in making 
 any new man's acquaintance. Kosamond silently 
 wished that her father would invite Mr. Lydgate. 
 She was tired of the faces and figures she had 
 always been used to, — the various irregular pro- 
 files and gaits and turns 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 Middle- 
 march 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 sul)ject. An 
 alderman about to be mayor must by and by
 
 MISS BROOKE. 131 
 
 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 schoolroom. 
 It awaited the family laggard, who found any sort 
 of inconvenience (to others) less disagreeable than 
 getting up when he was called. This was the case 
 one morning of the October in which we have 
 lately seen Mr. Casaubon visiting the Grange ; and 
 though the room was a little overheated with the 
 fire, which had sent the spaniel panting to a remote 
 corner, Eosaraond, 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 re- 
 turned 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 giv- 
 ing notice that it was going to strike, she looked 
 up from the lace-mending which was occupying 
 her plump fingers and rang the bell. 
 
 " Knock at Mr. Fred's door again, Pritchard, 
 and tell him it has struck half-past ten. " 
 
 This was said without any change in the radiant 
 good-humour of Mrs. 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 Eosamond, " when Fred comes 
 down I wish you would not let him have red her-
 
 132 MIDDLEMA.RCH. 
 
 rings. I cannot bear the smell of them all over 
 the house at this hour of the morning. " 
 
 " 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. " 
 
 " Not tetchy, mamma : you never hear me speak 
 in an unladylike way. " 
 
 " Well, but you want to deny them things. " 
 
 " Brothers are so unpleasant. " 
 
 " Oh, my dear, you must allow for young men. 
 Be thankful 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 un- 
 derstand why, for he seems to me most clever. 
 And you know yourself 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. " 
 
 " Well, my dear, you will not find any Middle- 
 march young man who has not something against 
 him. " 
 
 "But" — here Eosamond'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
 
 MISS BROOKE. 133 
 
 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, — 1 wish you would not 
 say ' the pick of them. ' " 
 
 " Why, what else are they ? " 
 
 " I mean, mamma, it is rather a vulgar 
 expression. " 
 
 " Very likely, my dear ; I never was a good 
 speaker. What should I say ? " 
 
 " The best of them. " 
 
 " Why, that seems just as plain and common. 
 If I had had time to think, I should have said, 
 ' the most superior young men. ' But with your 
 education you must know. " 
 
 " What must Eosy 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 fire stood 
 with his back towards it, warming the soles of his 
 slippers. 
 
 " Whether it 's right to say ' superior young 
 men, ' " said Mrs. Vincy, ringing 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 Eosamond, with mild gravity. 
 
 " Only the wrong sort. All choice of words is 
 slang. It marks a class. " 
 
 " There is correct English : that is not slang. " 
 
 " I beg your pardon : correct English is the slang 
 of prigs who write history and essays. And the 
 strongest slang of all is the slang of poets. " 
 
 " You will say anything, Fred, to gain your 
 point. "
 
 134 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 " Well, tell me whether it is slang or poetry to 
 call an ox a leg-plaiter. " 
 
 " 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 slang 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 walked 
 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. " 
 
 " Eeally, Fred, " said Rosamond, when the ser- 
 vant had left the room, " if you must have hot 
 things for breakfast, I wish you would come down 
 earlier. You can get up at six o'clock to go out 
 hunting ; I cannot understand why you find it so 
 difficult to get up on other mornings. " 
 
 " That 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 
 iDone ? " 
 
 " I should think you were an uncommonly fast 
 young lady, " said Fred, eating his toast with the 
 utmost composure. 
 
 " I cannot see why brothers are to make them- 
 selves disagreeable, any more than sisters. "
 
 MISS BROOKE. 135 
 
 "I don't make myself disagreeable; it is you 
 who find me so. Disagreeable is a word that de- 
 scribes 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," 
 said 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 were pinch- 
 ing 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." 
 
 " Oh, I dined at Plymdale's. We had whist. 
 Lydgate was there too. " 
 
 " And what do you think of him ? He is very 
 gentlemanly, I suppose. They say he is of excel- 
 lent 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 
 have very poor devils for second cousins. " 
 
 " It always makes a difference, though, to he of 
 good family, " said Rosamond, with a tone of deci- 
 sion which showed that she had thought on this 
 subject. Rosamond felt that she might have been
 
 136 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 happier if she had not been the daughter of a 
 Middlemarch manufacturer. She disliked any- 
 thing which reminded her that her mother's father 
 had been an innkeeper. Certainly any one remem- 
 bering the fact might think that Mrs. Vincy had 
 the air of a very handsome good-humoured land- 
 lady, accustomed to the most capricious orders of 
 gentlemen. 
 
 " I thought it was odd his name was Tertius, " 
 said the bright-faced matron, " but of course it 's 
 a name in the family. Biit now, tell us exactly 
 what sort of man he is. " 
 
 " Oh, tallish, dark, clever, — talks well, — rather 
 a prig, I think. " 
 
 " I never can make out what you mean by a 
 prig, " said Eosamond. 
 
 " A fellow who wants to show that he has 
 opinions. " 
 
 " Why, my dear, doctors must have opinions, " 
 said Mrs. Vincy. " What are they there for else 1 " 
 
 " 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 Eosamond, not without a touch of innuendo. 
 
 " Eeally, I can't say," said Fred, rather glumly, 
 as he left the table, and taking 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 wish you would not be so vulgar, Fred. If 
 you have finished, pray ring the bell. " 
 
 " It is true, though, — what your brother says, 
 Eosamond, " Mrs. Vincy began, when the servant 
 had cleared the table. " It is a thousand pities
 
 MISS BROOKE. 137 
 
 you have n't patience to go and see your uncle 
 more, so proud of you as he is, and wanted you 
 to live with him. 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 children 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, be- 
 cause she likes that better than being a governess, " 
 said Eosamond, folding up her work. " I would 
 rather not have anything left to me if I must earn 
 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 jus- 
 tice to be thought of. And Mr. Featherstone's 
 first 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 
 Garth 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 
 skilfully, " if she had 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 Eosa-
 
 138 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 mond, rising with her mamma, " he is only read- 
 ing a novel. " 
 
 " Well, well, by and by he '11 go to his Latin 
 and things, " said Mrs. Vincy, soothingly, 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. 
 
 " I suppose you are not going out riding to-day ?" 
 said Kosamond, 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. " 
 
 " I want to ride so much, it is indifferent to me 
 where we go. " Eosamond really wished to go to 
 Stone Court, of all other places. 
 
 " Oh, I say, Eosy, " said Fred, as she was passing 
 out of the room, " if you are going to the piano, 
 let me come and play some airs with you. " 
 
 " Pray, do not ask me this morning. " 
 
 " Why not this morning ? " 
 
 " Eeally, Fred, I wish you would leave of}' play- 
 ing 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. Miss 
 Eosamond, 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 T should 
 expect you to oblige me by not playing it? "
 
 MISS BROOKE. 139 
 
 " And why should you expect me to take you 
 out ridiug ? " 
 
 This question led to an adjustment, for Kosa- 
 mond had set her mind on that particular ride. 
 
 So Fred was gratified with nearly an hour's 
 practice of " Ar hyd y nos, " " Ye banks and braes, " 
 and other favourite airs from his " Instructor on the 
 Flute ; " a wheezy performance, into which he threw 
 much ambition and an irrepressible hopefulness.
 
 CHAPTEK XIL 
 
 He had more tow on his distaffe 
 Than Gerveis knew. 
 
 Chaucek. 
 
 The ride to Stone Court, which Fred and Eosa- 
 mond took the next morning, lay through a pretty- 
 bit of midland 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 details gave each field a particular 
 physiognomy, dear to the eyes that have looked on 
 them from childhood : the pool in the corner where 
 the grasses were dank and trees leaned whisper- 
 ingly ; 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 making 
 a red background for the burdock ; the huddled 
 roofs and ricks of the homestead without a trace- 
 able way of approach ; the gray 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 land- 
 scape to midland -bred souls, — the things they 
 toddled among, or perhaps learned by heart stand- 
 ing between their father's knees while he drove 
 leisurely.
 
 MISS BROOKE. 141 
 
 But the road, even the by-road, was excellent ; 
 for Lowick, as we have seen, was not a parish of 
 muddy lanes and poor tenants ; and it was into 
 Lowick parish that Fred and Rosamond entered 
 after a couple of miles' riding. Another mile 
 would bring them to Stone Court, and at the end of 
 the first half the house was already visible, look- 
 ing 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 of a gentleman farmer. It was not the 
 less agreeable an object in the distance for the 
 cluster of pinnacled 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 circular drive before 
 the front door. 
 
 " Dear me, " said Rosamond, " I 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 think. 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. " 
 
 " I 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 fully 
 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 peo-
 
 142 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 pie like them, who don't want to spend anything. 
 And yet they hang about my uncle like vultures, 
 and are afraid of a farthing 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 of these distant connections, 
 had happened to say this 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 mo- 
 mentary 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 had supplied him 
 with fresh syrup, and he had begun to rub the 
 gold knob of his stick, looking bitterly at the fire. 
 It was a bright fire, but it made no difference to 
 the chill-looking purplish tint of Mrs. Waule 's 
 face, which was as neutral as her voice ; having 
 mere chinks for eyes, and lips that hardly moved 
 in speaking. 
 
 " 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
 
 MISS BROOKE. 143 
 
 saying, it 's a pity Mrs. Vincy's family can't be 
 better conducted. " 
 
 " Tchah ! you said nothing 0' 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 forever 
 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. For they 
 say he 's been losing money for years, though no- 
 body would think so, to see him go coursing and 
 keeping open house as they do. And I 've heard 
 say Mr. Bulstrode condemns Mrs. Vincy beyond 
 anything for her i^ightiness, and spoiling her 
 children so. " 
 
 " What 's Bulstrode to me ? I don't bank with 
 him. " 
 
 " Well, Mrs. Bulstrode is Mr. Vincy's own sis- 
 ter, and they do say that Mr. Vincy mostly 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 expec-
 
 144 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 tations. 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 Garth. 
 " 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 genuineness as an old 
 whist-player's chuckle over a bad hand. Still 
 looking at the fire, he said, — 
 
 " And who pretends to say Fred Vincy hasn't 
 got expectations ? 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 is naturally painful 
 to me and my brother Solomon to hear your name 
 made free with, and your complaint being such as 
 may carry you off 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 brother! And if that 's to be it, what has it 
 pleased the Almighty to make families for ? " Here 
 Mrs. Waule's tears fell, but with moderation. 
 
 "Come, out with it, Jane!" said Mr. Feather- 
 stone, 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 unshaken. ) " It was
 
 MISS BROOKE. 145 
 
 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-aud-twenty, though steady 
 beyond anything. And he had it from most un- 
 deniable authority, and not one, but many. " 
 
 " Stuff and nonsense! I don't believe a word of 
 it. It 's all a got-up story. Go to the window, 
 missy ; I thought I heard a horse. See if the 
 doctor 's coming. " 
 
 " Not got up by me, brother, nor yet by Solo- 
 mon, who, whatever else he may be, — and I don't 
 deny he has oddities, — has made his will and 
 parted his property equal between such kin as he 's 
 friends with ; though, for my part, I think there 
 are times when some should be considered more 
 than others. But Solomon makes it no secret 
 what he means to do. " 
 
 " The more fool he ! " said Mr. Featherstone, with 
 some difficulty ; breaking into a severe fit of cough- 
 ing that required Mary Garth to stand near 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 riding-habit 
 with much grace. She bowed ceremoniously to 
 Mrs. Waule, who said stiffly, " 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. " 
 
 VOL. I. — 10
 
 I4(^ MIDDLEMAKCH. 
 
 "Sit down, sit down. Mrs. Waule, you 'd better 
 
 go." 
 
 Even those neighbours who had called Peter 
 Featherstone an old fox, had never accused him 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 Almighty's inten- 
 tions about families. She rose slowly without any 
 sign of resentment, and said in her usual muffled 
 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 inore ready to nurse you than your own sister 
 and your own nieces, if you 'd only say the word. 
 There 's Eebecca, and Joanna, and Elizabeth, you 
 know. " 
 
 " Ay, ay, I remember, — you '11 see I 've remem- 
 bered 'em all, — all dark and ugly. They 'd need 
 have some money, eh ? There never was any 
 beauty in the women of our family ; but the 
 Peatherstones have always liad some money, and 
 the Waules too. Waule had money too. A warm 
 man was Waule. Ay, ay ; money 's a good egg ; 
 and if you 've got money to leave behind you, lay 
 it in a warm nest. Good-by, Mrs. Waule. " 
 
 Here Mr. Featherstone pulled at both sides of 
 his wig as if he wanted to deafen himself, and his 
 sister went away ruminating on this oracular 
 speech of his. Notwithstanding her jealousy of 
 the Yincys and of Mary Garth, there remained as 
 the nethermost sediment in her mental shallows
 
 PeTEE i'EATHERSTONE AND FbeD ViNCY.
 
 MISS BROOKE. 147 
 
 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 childless, after he 
 had gained so much by manganese and things, 
 turning up when nobody expected it ? — and why 
 was there a Lowick parish church, and the Waules 
 and Powderells all sitting in the same pew for 
 generations, and the Featherstone pew next to 
 them, if, the Sunday after her brother Peter's 
 death, everybody was to know that the property 
 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 strictly 
 conceivable. 
 
 When Fred came in the old man eyed him with 
 a peculiar twinkle, 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. Feather- 
 stone. " I want to speak to Fred. " 
 
 " Come into my room, Eosamond, you will not 
 mind the cold for a little while, " said Mary. 
 The two girls had not only known each other in 
 childhood, 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 tete-a- 
 tete 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 twinkle and with one 
 of his habitual grimaces, alternately screwing and
 
 148 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 widening 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 indignation even on 
 account of trespasses agaiust himself. It was natu- 
 ral that others should want to get an advantage 
 over him ; but then, he was a little too cunning for 
 them. 
 
 " So, sir, you 've been paying ten per cent for 
 money which you 've promised to pay off by mort- 
 gaging 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 con- 
 scious of having spoken with some confidence (per- 
 haps with more than he exactly remembered) about 
 his prospect of getting Featherstone's land as a 
 future means of paying present debts. 
 
 " I don't know what you refer to, sir. I have 
 certainly never borrowed any money on such an 
 insecurity. Please to explain. " 
 
 " 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 discriminate contradict- 
 ing from disproving, though no one was further 
 from confounding the two ideas than old Feather- 
 stone, who often wondered that so many fools took
 
 MISS BROOKE. 149 
 
 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 name 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. Bulstrode ? " 
 
 " Who else, eh ? " 
 
 " Then the story has grown into this lie out of 
 some sermonizing 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 Bul- 
 strode 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 writing 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 grimaces as a muscular outlet to his silent tri- 
 umph in the soundness of his faculties. 
 
 Fred felt himself to be in a disgusting dilemma. 
 
 " You must be joking, sir. Mr. Bulstrode, like 
 other men, 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 miglit 
 lead to unpleasantness. But I could hardly ask
 
 ISO MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 him to write down what he believes or does not 
 believe about me. " Fred paused an instant, and 
 then added, in politic appeal to his uncle's vanity, 
 " 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 
 God A' mighty to come in. That's nonsense! 
 There 's one thing I made out pretty clear when I 
 used to go to church, and it 's this : God A 'mighty 
 sticks to the land. He promises land, and He 
 gives land, and He makes chaps rich with corn 
 and cattle. But you take the other side. You 
 like Bulstrode and speckilation better than Feath- 
 erstone 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. 
 
 " Well, well, you can do without me, that 's 
 pretty clear, " said old Featherstone, secretly dis- 
 liking the possibility that Fred would show him- 
 self at all independent. " You neither want a bit 
 of land to make a squire of you instead of a starv- 
 ing parson, nor a lift of a hundred pound 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
 
 MISS BROOKE. 151 
 
 it seemed almost harder to part with the immedi- 
 ate prospect of bank-notes than with the more 
 distant prospect of the land. 
 
 " I am not ungrateful, 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 saying he doesn't believe 
 you 've been cracking and promising to pay your 
 debts out o' my land, and then, if there 's any 
 scrape you 've got into, we '11 see if I can't back 
 you a bit. Come now ! That 's a bargain. Here, 
 give me your arm. I '11 try and walk round the 
 room. " 
 
 Fred, in spite of his irritation, had kindness 
 enough in him to be a little sorry for the unloved, 
 unvenerated old man, who with his dropsical 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 con- 
 stitution breaking up ; and he waited good-tem- 
 peredly, first before the window to hear the wonted 
 remarks about the guinea-fowls and the weather- 
 cock, and then before the scanty book-shelves, of 
 which the chief glories in dark calf were Josephus, 
 Culpepper, Klopstock's "Messiah," and several 
 volumes of the " Gentleman's Magazine. " 
 
 " Eead me the names o' the books. Come now! 
 You 're a college man. " 
 
 Fred gave him the titlea 
 
 " What did missy want with more books 1 
 What must you be bringing her more books for ? " 
 
 " They amuse her, sir. She is very fond of 
 reading. " 
 
 " A little too fond, " said Mr. Featherstone, cap-
 
 152 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 tiously. " 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. I 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 this 
 order before, and had secretly disobeyed it. He 
 intended to disobey it again. 
 
 " Eing the bell, " said Mr. Featherstone ; " I 
 want missy to come down. " 
 
 Eosanioud and Mary had been talking faster than 
 their male friends. They did not think of sitting 
 down, but stood at the toilet-table near the win- 
 dow while Eosamond 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 Eosamond, and the slim figure displayed by 
 her riding-habit had delicate undulations. In fact, 
 most men in Middlemarch, except her brothers, 
 held that Miss A^'incy was the best girl in the 
 world, and some called her an angel. Mary 
 Garth, on the contrary, had the aspect of an ordi- 
 nary 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
 
 MISS BROOKE. 153 
 
 antithesis, that she had all the virtues. Plainness 
 has its peculiar temptations and vices quite as 
 much as beauty ; it is apt either to feign amiabil- 
 ity, or, not feigning it, to show all the repulsive- 
 ness of discontent : at any rate, to be called an 
 ugly thing in contrast with that lovely creature 
 your companion, is apt to produce some effect be- 
 yond a sense of fine veracity and fitness in the 
 phrase. At the age of two-and-twenty Mary had 
 certainly not attained that perfect good sense and 
 good principle which are usually recommended to 
 the less fortunate girl, as if they were to be ob- 
 tained 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, in- 
 stead of telling her that she ought to be contented, 
 did something to make her so. Advancing woman- 
 hood had tempered her plainness, 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. Eembrandt would 
 have painted her with pleasure, and would have 
 made her broad features look out of the canvas 
 with intelligent honesty. For honesty, truth - 
 telling fairness, was Mary's reigning virtue : she 
 neither tried to create illusions, nor indulged in 
 them for her own behoof, and when she was in a 
 good mood she had humour enough in her to laugh 
 at herself. When she and Eosamond happened 
 both to be reflected in the glass, she said 
 laughingly, — 
 
 " What a brown patch I am by the side of you, 
 Rosy ! You are the most unbecoming companion. "
 
 154 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 " Oh, no ! No one thinks of your appearance, 
 you are so sensible and useful, Mary. Beauty is 
 of very little consequence in reality, " said Rosa- 
 mond, turning her head towards Mary, but with 
 eyes swerving towards the new view of her neck 
 in the glass. 
 
 " You mean my beauty, " said Mary, rather 
 sardonically. 
 
 Eosamond thought, " Poor Mary, she takes the 
 kindest things ill. " Aloud she said, " What have 
 you been doing lately ? " 
 
 " I ? Oh, minding the house, — pouring out 
 syrup, — pretending to be amiable and contented, 
 — learning to have a bad opinion of everybody. " 
 
 " It is a wretched life for you. " 
 
 " No, " said Mary, curtly, with a little toss of 
 her head. " I think my life is pleasanter than 
 your Miss Morgan's. " 
 
 " Yes ; but Miss Morgan is so uninteresting, 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 Eosamond, 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. I 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 de- 
 termined by the resolve not to show any change. 
 
 " Does that always make people fall in love ? "
 
 MISS BROOKE. 155 
 
 she answered carelessly ; " it seems to me quite as 
 often a reason for detesting each other. " 
 
 " Not when they are interesting and agreeable. 
 I hear that Mr. Lydgate is both. " 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Lydgate! " said Mary, with an unmis- 
 takable lapse into indiS'erence. " You want to 
 know something about him, " she added, not choos- 
 ing to indulge Rosamond's indirectness. 
 
 " Merely, how you like him. " 
 
 " There is no question of liking at present. My 
 liking always wants some little kindness to kindle 
 it. I am not magnanimous enough to like people 
 who speak to me without seeming to see me. " 
 
 " Is he so haughty ? " said Eosamond, 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 — let me see — oh, an exquisite cam- 
 bric pocket-handkerchief. But you will see him. 
 You know this is about the time of his visits. " 
 
 Eosamond blushed a little, but said medita- 
 tively, " I rather like a haughty manner. I can- 
 not endure a rattling young man. " 
 
 " I did not tell you that Mr. Lydgate was 
 haughty ; but il y en a 'pour tous les gouts, 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, Eosy. " 
 
 "Haughtiness is not conceit; I call Fred 
 conceited. "
 
 IS6 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 " I wish no one said any worse of him. He 
 should be more 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 horrid ! " said Eosamond. 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. " 
 
 " I think Fred is quite right. " 
 
 " How can you say he is quite right, Mary ? I 
 thought you had more sense of religion. " 
 
 " 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 people who are in the same 
 case. " 
 
 " But no one approves of them. I should not 
 like to marry a clergyman ; but there must be 
 clergymen. " 
 
 " It 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 ? " 
 
 " I 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
 
 MISS BROOKE. 157 
 
 would defend any parish 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. " 
 
 " It is of no use saying anything to you, Mary. 
 You always take Fred's part. " 
 
 " Why should I not take his part ? " 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 Eosamond, with her gravest mildness ; " I 
 would not tell mamma for the world. " 
 
 " What would you not tell her ? " said Mary, 
 angrily. 
 
 " Pray, do not go into a rage, Mary, " said Eosa- 
 mond, mildly as ever. 
 
 ' If your mamma 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. " 
 
 " I ? What can you blame me for ? " 
 
 " Oh, blameless people are always the most ex- 
 asperating. There is the bell, — I think we must 
 go down. " 
 
 " I did not mean to quarrel, " said Eosamond, 
 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 ? "
 
 158 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 " 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, — " Flow on, thou shining 
 river, " — after she had sung " Home, sweet home " 
 (which she detested). This hard-headed old Over- 
 reach approved of the sentimental song, as the sui- 
 table garnish for girlS; and also as fundamentally 
 fine, sentiment being the right thing 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 
 believe that medicine would not " set him up " if 
 the doctor were only clever enough, — added to his 
 general disbelief in Middleraarch charms, made a 
 doubly effective background to this vision of Rosa- 
 mond, whom old Featherstone made haste ostenta- 
 tiously to introduce as his niece, though he had 
 never thought it 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 thrust 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 exam- 
 ining Mary more fully than he had done before, 
 saw an adorable kindness in Rosamond's eyes.
 
 MISS BROOKE. 159 
 
 But Mary from some cause looked rather out of 
 temper. 
 
 " Miss Eosy has been singing me a song, — 
 you've nothing to say against that, eh, Doctor?" 
 said Mr. Featherstone. " I like it better than 
 your physic. " 
 
 " That has made me forget how the time was 
 going, " said Eosamond, rising to reach her hat, 
 which she had laid aside before singing, so that 
 her flower-like head on its white stem was seen 
 in perfection above her riding-habit. " Fred, we 
 must really go. " 
 
 " Very good, " said Fred, who had his own rea- 
 sons for not being in the best spirits, and wanted 
 to get away. 
 
 " Miss Vincy is a musician ? " said Lydgate, 
 following her with his eyes. (Every nerve and 
 muscle in Eosamond was adjusted to the conscious- 
 ness that she was being looked at. She was by 
 nature an actress of parts that entered into her 
 •physique : 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 '11 be bound," said 
 Mr. Featherstone, " let 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 nothing. " 
 
 " Middlemarch has not a very high standard, 
 uncle, " said Eosamond, 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 him : 
 he of course was looking at her, and their eyes
 
 i6o MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 met with that peculiar meeting which is never 
 arrived at by effort, but seems like a sudden divine 
 clearance of haze. I think Lydgate turned a .little 
 paler than usual, but Eosamond 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 this result, which she took to be a mutual 
 impression, called falling in love, was just what 
 Eosamond had contemplated beforehand. Ever 
 since that important new arrival in Middlemarch 
 she had woven a little future, of which something 
 like this scene was the necessary beginning. 
 Strangers, whether wrecked and clinging to a raft, 
 or duly escorted and accompanied by portmanteaus, 
 have always had a circumstantial fascination for 
 the virgin mind, against which native merit has 
 urged itself in vain. And a stranger was abso- 
 lutely necessary to Eosamond 's social romance, 
 which had always turned on a lover and bride- 
 groom who was not a Middlemarcher, 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 Eosamond 
 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 first 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 ? 
 Eosamond, though no older than Mary, was rather
 
 MISS BROOKE. i6i 
 
 used to being fallen in love with ; but she, for her 
 part, had remained indifferent and fastidiously 
 critical towards both fresh sprig and faded bache- 
 lor. And here was Mr. Lydgate suddenly corre- 
 sponding to her ideal, being altogether foreign to 
 Middlemarch, carrying a certain air of distinction 
 congruous with good family, and possessing con- 
 nections 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. 
 Eosamond, whose basis for her structure 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 introduc- 
 tions of her wedded life, having determined on her 
 house in Middlemarch, and foreseen the visits she 
 would pay to her husband's high-bred relatives at 
 a distance, whose finished manners she could ap- 
 propriate as thoroughly as she had done her school 
 accomplishments, preparing herself thus for vaguer 
 elevations which might ultimately come. There 
 was nothing financial, still less sordid, in her pre- 
 visions : 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 hopefulness could 
 not immediately quell. He saw no way of eluding 
 
 VOL. I. — 1]
 
 1 62 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 Featherstone's stupid demand withou incurring 
 consequences which he liked less even than the 
 task of fulfilling 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 Bulstrodes. Then, 
 he himself hated having to go and speak to his 
 uncle Bulstrode, and perhaps after drinking wine 
 he had said many foolish things about Feather- 
 stone'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 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 ex- 
 tremely, 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 magnificent. Fred had 
 known men to whom he would have been ashamed 
 of confessing the smallness of his scrapes. Such 
 ruminations naturally produced a streak of misan- 
 thropic bitterness. To be born the son of a Mid- 
 dlemarch manufacturer, and inevitable heir to 
 nothing in particular, while such men as Mainwar- 
 ing and Vyan — certainly life was a poor business, 
 when a spirited young fellow, with a good appetite 
 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 this have made any 
 difference to his position. He saw plainly enough 
 that the old man wanted to exercise his power by
 
 MISS BROOKE. 163 
 
 tormenting him a little, and also probably to get 
 some satisfaction out of seeing liim on unpleasant 
 terms 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 talking 
 about him ; and if Mary Garth had repeated Mrs. 
 Waule 's report to Eosamond, it would be sure to 
 reach his father, who would as surely question 
 him about it. He said to Eosamond, as they 
 slackened their pace, — 
 
 " Eosy, did Mary tell you that Mrs. Waule 
 had said anything about me ? " 
 
 " Yes, indeed, she did. " 
 
 " What ? " 
 
 " That you were very unsteady. " 
 
 " Was that all ? " 
 
 " I should think that was enough, Fred. " 
 
 " You are sure she said no more ? " 
 
 " Mary mentioned nothing else. But really, 
 Fred, I think you ought to be ashamed. " 
 
 "Oh, fudge! Don't lecture me. What did 
 Mary say about it ? " 
 
 " I 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. "
 
 i64 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 " 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. " 
 
 " I 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.
 
 BOOK n. 
 
 OLD AND YOUNG. 
 
 CHAPTEE XIII. 
 
 " 1st Gent. How class your man ? — as better than the most, 
 Or, seeming better, worse beneath that cloak 1 
 As saint or knave, pilgrim or hypocrite ? 
 2d Gent. Nay, tell me how you class your wealth of books, 
 The drifted relics of all time. As well 
 Sort them at once by size and livery : 
 Vellum, tall copies, and the common calf 
 Will hardly cover more diversity 
 Than all your labels cunningly devised 
 To class your unread authors." 
 
 In consequence of what he had heard from Fred, 
 Mr. Vincy determined to speak with Mr. Bulstrode 
 in his private room 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. Bul- 
 strode 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 ima- 
 gine his sickly aspect to have been of the yellow, 
 black-haired sort : he had a pale blond skin, thin 
 gray-besprinkled brown hair, light-gray eyes, and a 
 large forehead. Loud men called his subdued tone 
 an undertone, and sometimes implied that it was
 
 1 66 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 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 lungs. 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 thrill of satisfac- 
 tion 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 publicans and 
 sinners in Middlemarch ; it was attributed by some 
 to his being a Pharisee, and by others to his being 
 Evangelical. Less superficial reasoners among them 
 wished to know who his father and grandfather 
 were, observing that five-and-twenty years ago 
 nobody had ever heard of a Bulstrode in Middle- 
 march. To his present visitor, Lydgate, the scru- 
 tinizing 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 tan- 
 gible 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 coad- 
 jutor in the interesting matter of hospital manage- 
 ment, there will be many questions which we shall
 
 OLD AND YOUNG. 167 
 
 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 provincial town like this," said Lydgate. " A 
 fine fever hospital in addition to the old infirmary 
 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 pro- 
 fessional aims may often find a freer, if not a richer 
 field, in the provinces." 
 
 One of Lydgate's gifts was 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 fear- 
 less 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 this proud openness was 
 made lovable by an expression of unaffected good- 
 will. Mr. Bulstrode perhaps liked him the better 
 for the difference between them in pitch and man- 
 ners ; he certainly liked him the better, as Eosa- 
 mond did, for being a stranger in Middlemarch. 
 One can begin so many things with a new person ! 
 — even begin to be a better man.
 
 1 68 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 " I shall rejoice to furnish your zeal with fuller 
 opportunities," 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. In- 
 deed, I am encouraged to consider your advent 
 to this 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 old infirmary, we have gained 
 the initial point, — I mean your election. And 
 now I hope you will not shrink from incurring a 
 certain amount of jealousy and dislike from your 
 professional brethren by presenting yourself as a 
 reformer." 
 
 " I will not profess bravery," said Lydgate, smil- 
 ing, " but I acknowledge a good deal of pleasure in 
 fighting, and I should not care for my profession, if 
 1 did not believe that better methods were to be 
 found and enforced there as well as everywhere 
 else " 
 
 "The standard of that profession is low in Middle- 
 march, 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 divine 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 labours in our provincial districts." 
 
 "Yes; with our present medical rules and edu- 
 cation, one must be satisfied now and then to meet
 
 OLD AND YOUNG. 169 
 
 with a fair practitioner. As to all the higher ques- 
 tions which determine the starting-point of a diag- 
 nosis, — as to the philosophy of medical evidence, 
 — 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. Never- 
 theless, Mr. Lydgate, I hope we shall not vary in 
 sentiment 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 
 recognize, 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 teach- 
 ing is as fatal as no teaching. Now a point which 
 I have much at heart to secure is a new regulation 
 as to clerical attendance at the old infirmary. The 
 building stands in Mr. Farebrother's parish. You 
 know Mr. Farebrother ? " 
 
 " I have seen him. He gave me his vote. I 
 must call to thank him. He seems a very bright 
 pleasant little fellow. And I understand he is a 
 naturalist." 
 
 " Mr. Farebrother, my dear sir, is a man deeply 
 painful to contemplate. I suppose there is not a
 
 I70 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 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. 
 
 " What I desire," Mr. Bulstrode continued, look- 
 ing still more serious, " is 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. Bul- 
 strode began to speak with a more chiselled em- 
 phasis — " the subject is likely to be referred to 
 the medical, board of the infirmary, and what I trust 
 I may ask of you is, that in virtue of the co-opera- 
 tion between us which I now look forward to, you 
 will not, so far as you are concerned, be influenced 
 by my opponents in this 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 profession." 
 
 " My responsibility, Mr. Lydgate, is of a broader 
 kind. With me, indeed, this question is one of 
 sacred accountableness ; whereas with my oppo- 
 nents, I have good reason to say that it is an occa- 
 sion for gratifying a spirit of worldly opposition. 
 But I shall not therefore drop one iota of my con- 
 victions, or cease to identify myself with that truth
 
 OLD AND YOUNG. 171 
 
 which an evil generation hates. I have devoted 
 myself to this object of hospital-improvement, but 
 I will 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 
 united ; but a man naturally remembers a charming 
 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 men- 
 tioned 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 glass 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."
 
 172 MIDDLE^klARCH. 
 
 " I hope not this time." (Mr. Vincy was resolved 
 to be good-humoured.) " 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 hand- 
 some for him ; indeed he has as good as told Fred 
 that he means to leave him his land, and that makes 
 other people jealous." 
 
 " Vincy, I must repeat that you will not get any 
 concurrence from me as to the course you have pur- 
 sued with your eldest son. It was entirely from 
 worldly vanity that you destined him for the Church : 
 with a family of three sons and four daughters, you 
 were not warranted in devoting money to an expen- 
 sive education which has succeeded in nothing but 
 in giving him extravagant idle habits. You are now 
 reaping the consequences." 
 
 To point out other people's errors was a duty that 
 Mr. Bulstrode rarely shrank from, but Mr. Vincy 
 was not equally prepared to be patient. When a 
 man has the immediate prospect of being mayor, 
 and is ready, in the interests of commerce, to take 
 up a firm attitude on politics generally, he has natu- 
 rally a sense of his importance to the framework of 
 things which seems to throw questions of private 
 conduct into the background. And this particular 
 reproof irritated him more than any other. It was 
 eminently superfluous to him to be told that he was 
 reaping the consequences. But he felt his neck 
 under Bulstrode's yoke ; and though he usually 
 enjoyed kicking, he was anxious to refrain from that 
 relief. 
 
 " As to that, Bulstrode, it 's no use going back. 
 I 'm not one of your pattern men, and I don't pre-
 
 OLD AND YOUNG. 173 
 
 tend to be. I couldn't foresee everything in the 
 trade ; there wasn't a finer business in Middlemarch 
 than ours, and the lad was clever. My poor brother 
 was in the Church, and would have done well — 
 had got preferment already, but that stomach fever 
 took him off: else he might have been a dean by 
 this time. I think I was justified in what I tried 
 to do for Fred. If you come to religion, it seems to 
 me a man should n't want to carve out his meat 
 to an ounce beforehand : one must trust a little to 
 Providence and be generous. It 's a good British 
 feeling to try and raise your family a little : in my 
 opinion, it 's a father's duty to give his sons a fine 
 chance." 
 
 " I don't wish to act otherwise than as your best 
 friend, Vincy, when I say that what you have been 
 uttering just now is one mass of worldliness and 
 inconsistent folly." 
 
 " Very well," said Mr. Vincy, kicking in spite of 
 resolutions, " I never professed to be anything but 
 worldly ; and, what 's more, I don't see anybody 
 else who is not worldly. I suppose you don't con- 
 duct business on what you call unworldly principles. 
 The only difference I see is that one worldliness is a 
 little bit honester than another." 
 
 " This kind of discussion is unfruitful, Vincy," 
 said Mr. Bulstrode, who, finishing his sandwich, had 
 thrown himself back in his chair, and shaded his 
 eyes as if weary. " You had some more particular 
 business." 
 
 " Yes, yes. The long and short of it is, somebody 
 has told old Featherstone, giving you as the author- 
 ity, that Fred has been borrowing or trying to 
 borrow money on the prospect of his land. Of 
 course you never said any such nonsense. But the
 
 174 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 old fellow will insist on it that Fred should bring 
 liim a denial in your handwriting ; that is, just a 
 bit of a note saying you don't believe a word of such 
 stuff, either of his having borrowed or tried to borrow 
 in such a fool's way. I suppose you can have no 
 objection to do that." 
 
 " Pardon me. I have an objection. I am by no 
 means sure that your son, in his recklessness and 
 ignorance, — I will use no severer word, — has not 
 tried to raise money by holding out his future pros- 
 pects, or even that some one may not have been 
 foolish enough to supply him on so vague a pre- 
 sumption : there is plenty of such lax money-lend- 
 ing as of other folly in the world." 
 
 " But Fred gives me his honour that he has 
 never borrowed money on the pretence of any 
 understanding about his uncle's land. He is not a 
 liar. I don't want to make him better than he is. 
 I have blown him up well — nobody can say I wink 
 at what he does. But he is not a liar. And I should 
 have thought — but I may be wrong — that there 
 was no religion to hinder a man from belieWng 
 the best of a young fellow, when you don't know 
 worse. It seems to me it would be a poor sort of 
 religion to put a spoke in his wheel by refusing 
 to say you don't believe such harm of him as 
 you've got no good reason to believe." 
 
 " I am not at all sure that I should be befriend- 
 ing your son by smoothing his way to the future 
 possession of Featherstone's property. I cannot 
 regard wealth as a blessing to those who use it 
 simply as a harvest for this world. You do not 
 like to hear these things, Vincy, but on this occa- 
 sion I feel called upon to tell you that I have no 
 motive for furthering such a disposition of prop-
 
 OLD AND YOUNG. 175 
 
 erty as that which you refer to. I do not shrink 
 from saying that it will not tend to your son's 
 eternal welfare or to the glory of God. Why then 
 should you expect me to pen this kind of affidavit, 
 which has no object but to keep up a foolish par- 
 tiality and secure a foolish bequest ? " 
 
 " If you mean to hinder everybody from having 
 money but saints and evangelists, you must give 
 up some profitable partnerships, that's all I can 
 say," Mr. Vincy burst out very bluntly. " It 
 may be for the glory of God, but it is not for 
 the glory of the Middlemarch trade, that Plym- 
 dale's house uses those blue and green dyes it 
 gets from the Brassing manufactory ; they rot the 
 silk, that 's all I know about it. Perhaps if other 
 people knew so much of the profit went to the 
 glory of God, they might like it better. But I 
 don't mind so much about that — I could get up 
 a pretty row, if I chose." 
 
 Mr. Bulstrode paused a little before he answered : 
 " You pain me very much by speaking in this way, 
 Vincy. I do not expect you to understand my 
 grounds of action — it is not an easy thing even to 
 thread a path for principles in the intricacies of 
 the world — still less to make the thread clear for 
 the careless and the scoffing. You must remember, if 
 you please, that I stretch my tolerance towards you 
 as my wife's brother, and that it little becomes you 
 to complain of me as withholding material help 
 towards the worldly position of your family. I 
 must remind you that it is not your own pru- 
 dence or judgment that has enabled you to keep 
 your place in the trade." 
 
 " Very likely not ; but you have been no loser 
 by my trade yet," said Mr. Vincy, thoroughly net-
 
 176 MIDDLEMAB.CH. 
 
 tied (a result which was seldom much retarded by 
 previous resolutions). "And when you married 
 Harriet, I don't see how you could expect that our 
 families should not hang by the same nail. If 
 you 've changed your mind, and want my family to 
 come down in the world, you'd better say so. I've 
 never changed ; I 'm a plain Churchman now, just 
 as I used to be before doctrines came up. I take 
 the world as I find it, in trade and everything else. 
 I 'm contented to be no worse than my neighbours. 
 But if you want us to come down in the world, say 
 so. I shall know better what to do then." 
 
 " You talk unreasonably. Shall you come down 
 in the world for want of this letter about your son ? " 
 
 " Well, whether or not, I consider it very unhand- 
 some of you to refuse it. Such doings may be lined 
 with religion, but outside they have a nasty, dog-in- 
 the-manger look. You might as well slander Fred : 
 it comes pretty near to it when you refuse to say 
 you did n't set a slander going. It 's this sort of 
 thing — this tyrannical spirit, wanting to play 
 bishop and banker everywhere — it's this sort of 
 thing makes a man's name stmk." 
 
 " Vincy, if you insist on quarrelling with me, it 
 will be exceedingly painful to Harriet as well as 
 myself," said Mr. Bulstrode, with a trifle more 
 eagerness and paleness than usual. 
 
 " I don't want to quarrel. It 's for my interest — 
 and perhaps for yours too — that we should be 
 friends. I bear you no grudge ; I think no worse 
 of you than I do of other people. A man who half 
 starves himself, and goes the length in family 
 prayers, and so on, that you do, believes in his 
 religion whatever it may be : you could turn over 
 your capital just as fast with cursing and swearing,
 
 OLD AND YOUNG. m 
 
 — plenty of fellows do. You like to be master, 
 there's no denying that ; you must be first chop 
 in heaven, else you won't like it much. But you 're 
 my sister's husband, and we ought to stick together ; 
 and if I know Harriet, she '11 consider it your fault 
 if we quarrel because you strain at a gnat in this 
 way, and refuse to do Fred a good turn. And I 
 don't mean to say I shall bear it well. I consider 
 it unhandsome." 
 
 Mr. Vincy rose, began to button his great-coat, 
 and looked steadily at his brother-in-law, meaning 
 to imply a demand for a decisive answer. 
 
 This was not the first time that Mr. Bulstrode 
 had begun by admonishing Mr. Vincy, and had 
 ended by seeing a very unsatisfactory reflection 
 of himself in the coarse unflattering mirror which 
 that manufacturer's mind presented to the subtler 
 lights and shadows of his fellow-men ; and perhaps 
 his experience ought to have warned him how the 
 scene would end. But a full-fed fountain will be 
 generous with its waters even in the rain, when 
 they are worse than useless ; and a fine fount of 
 admonition is apt to be equally irrepressible. 
 
 It was not in Mr. Bulstrode's nature to comply 
 directly in consequence of uncomfortable sugges- 
 tions. Before changing his course, he always 
 needed to shape his motives and bring them into 
 accordance with his habitual standard. He said, 
 at last, — 
 
 "I will reflect a little, Vincy. I will mention 
 the subject to Harriet. I shall probably send you 
 a letter." 
 
 " Very well. As soon as you can, please. I hope 
 it will all be settled before I see you to-morrow." 
 
 VOL. 1. — 12
 
 CHAPTEE XIV. 
 
 "Follows here the strict receipt 
 
 For that sauce to dainty meat, 
 
 Named Idleness, which many eat 
 
 By preference, and call it sweet : 
 
 First watch for morsels, like a hound, 
 Mix well with buffets, stir them round 
 With good thick oil of flatteries, 
 And froth with mean self-lauding lies. 
 Serve warm : the vessels you must choose 
 To keep it in are dead men's shoes." 
 
 Mk. Bulsteode's consultation of Harriet seemed to 
 have had the effect desired 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 upstairs imme- 
 diately 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. 
 
 " Under the circuTnstances, I will not decline to 
 state my conviction, — tchah ! what fine words the 
 fellow puts ! He 's as fine as an auctioneer — that 
 your son Frederic has not obtained any advance of 
 money on bequests promised by Mr. Featherstone — 
 promised ? who said I had ever promised ? I promise 
 nothing — I shall make codicils as long as I like — 
 and that considering the nature of such a proceeding, it
 
 OLD AND YOUNG. 179 
 
 is unreasonable to presume that a young man of sense 
 and character would attempt it, — ah, but the gentle- 
 man does n't say you are a young man of sense and 
 character, mark you that, sir ! — As to my own con- 
 cern vjith any report of such a nature, I distinctly af- 
 firm that I never made any statement to the effect that 
 your son had borrowed money on any property that 
 might accrue to him on Mr. Feather stone's demise 
 — bless my heart ! ' property ' — accrue — demise ! 
 Lawyer Standish is nothing to him. He could n'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. Bul- 
 strode'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, curtly, keeping on his spectacles, 
 but withdrawing his hands under his wraps. 
 
 " I expect nothing, sir." Fred with difficulty 
 restrained himself from venting his irritation. " I 
 came to bring you the letter. If you like I will 
 bid you good morning." 
 
 " Not yet, not yet. Eing the bell ; I want missy 
 to come." 
 
 It was a servant who came in answer to the bell. 
 
 "Tell missy to come!" said Mr. Featherstone, 
 impatiently. " What business had she to go 
 away ? " He spoke in the same tone when Mary 
 came.
 
 i8o MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 " Why could n't you sit still here till I told you 
 to go ? I want my waistcoat now. I told you 
 always to put it on the bed." 
 
 Mary'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 this 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 old tyrant 
 and tell him that Mary Garth was too good to be 
 at his beck. 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 anything 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 alone ! 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 furnish 
 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 am going to give you a little for- 
 tune, 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
 
 OLD AND YOUNG. i8i 
 
 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 pro- 
 bable that something or other — he did not neces- 
 sarily conceive what — would come to pass enabling 
 him to pay in due time. And now that the provi- 
 dential occurrence was apparently close at hand, it 
 would have been sheer absurdity to think that the 
 supply would be short of the need : 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 significant edges gaped 
 towards him. But then, each might mean fifty 
 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 this did not suit Mr. Featherstone, 
 who was eying him intently. 
 
 " Come, don't you think it worth your while to 
 count *em ? 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, after he had 
 counted them. For they actually presented the 
 absurdity of being less than his hopefulness had
 
 i82 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 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 behind 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 
 this country did not seem to help him. Neverthe- 
 less he said, with rapid changes in his fair 
 complexion, — 
 
 " It is very handsome of you, sir." 
 
 " I should think it is," said Mr. Featherstone, 
 locking his box and replacing it, then taking off his 
 spectacles deliberately, and at length, as if his 
 inward meditation had more deeply convinced him, 
 repeating, " I should think it is handsome." 
 
 " I assure you, sir, I am very grateful," said 
 Fred, who had had time to recover his cheerful air. 
 
 " So you ought to be. You want to cut a figure 
 in the world, and I reckon Peter Featherstone is 
 the only one you 've got to trust to." Here the old 
 man's eyes gleamed with a curiously mingled satis- 
 faction in the consciousness that this smart yoimg 
 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 really 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 money on buying bad 
 bargains." 
 
 " Well, you can buy yourself a fine hunter now. 
 Eighty poun4 i? enough for that, I reckon, — and
 
 OLD AND YOUNG. 183 
 
 you '11 have twenty pound over to get yourself out 
 of any little scrape," said Mr. Featherstone, chuck- 
 ling slightly. 
 
 " You are very good, sir," said Fred, with a fine 
 sense of contrast between the words and his feeling. 
 
 " Ay, rather a better uncle than your fine uncle 
 Bulstrode. You won't get much out of his spekila- 
 tions, I think. He 's got a pretty strong string 
 round your father's leg, by what I hear, eh ? " 
 
 " My father never tells me anything about his 
 affairs, sir." 
 
 " Well, he shows some sense there. But other 
 people find 'em out without his telling. He 'U never 
 have much to leave you : he '11 most-like die with- 
 out 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 by his dying with- 
 out a will, though yovi 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. 
 
 " 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 thrust 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
 
 i84 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 uncle, but also to find Mary Garth. She was now m 
 her usual place by the fire, with sewing in 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 self-command. 
 
 " Am I wanted upstairs ? " 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 indiffer- 
 ence than usual ; she did not know how affection- 
 ately indignant he had felt on her behalf upstairs. 
 
 " 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 asking 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 things in a girl's life, that there 
 must always be some supposition of falling in 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 van- 
 ity 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 tremulous tone of 
 vexation. 
 
 " Confound John Waule ! I did not mean to make 
 you angry. I did n't know you had any reason for 
 being grateful to me. I forgot what a great ser-
 
 OLD AND YOUNG. 185 
 
 vice you think it if any one snuffs a candle for 
 you." Fred also had his pride, and was not go- 
 ing to show that he knew what had called forth 
 this 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 
 common-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 undercurrent of laughter pleasant to hear. 
 
 " I don't care how merry you are at my expense 
 this morning," said Fred, " I thought you looked so 
 sad when you came upstairs. 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 think any hardship is better than pretend- 
 ing to do what one is paid for, and never really do- 
 ing it. Everything here T can do as well as any one 
 else could ; perhaps better than some, — Eosy, for 
 example. Though she is just the sort of beautiful 
 creature that is imprisoned with ogres in fairy 
 tales." 
 
 " Rosy ! " cried Fred, in a tone of profound broth- 
 erly scepticism. 
 
 " Come, Fred ! " said Mary, emphatically ; " 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
 
 i86 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 life to which it has not pleased God to call you,** 
 said Mary, laughing. 
 
 " Well, I could n'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 clergyman. 
 There are other sorts of work. It seems to me very 
 miserable not to resolve on some course and act 
 accordingly." 
 
 " So I could, if — " Fred broke off, and stood 
 up, leaning against the mantelpiece. 
 
 " If you were sure you should not have a fortune ? " 
 
 " I 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. " However 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 smile. 
 
 " You would admire a stupendous fellow, who 
 would have wise opinions about everything." 
 
 " Yes, I should." Mary was sewing swiftly, and 
 seemed provokingly mistress of the situation. When 
 a conversation has taken a wrong turn for us, we 
 only get farther and farther into the swamp of awk- 
 wardness. This was what Fred Vincy felt. 
 
 " I suppose a woman is never in love with any 
 one she has always known — ever since she can re- 
 member ; as a man often is. It is always some new 
 fellow who strikes a girl."
 
 OLD AND YOUNG. 187 
 
 " 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 esti- 
 mable young man ; and Minna was still more deeply 
 in love with Cleveland, who was a stranger. Wa- 
 verley was new to Flora Maclvor ; but then she did 
 not fall in love with him. And there are Olivia 
 and Sophia Primrose, and Corinne — they may be 
 said to have fallen in love with new men. Alto- 
 gether, my experience is rather mixed." 
 
 Mary looked up with some roguishness at Fred, 
 and that look of hers was very dear to him, though 
 the eyes were nothing more than clear windows 
 where observation sat laughingly. He was cer- 
 tainly an affectionate fellow, and as he had grown 
 from boy to man, he had grown in love with his old 
 playmate, notwithstanding that share in the higher 
 education of the country which had exalted his 
 views of rank and income. 
 
 " When a man is not loved, it is no use for him 
 to say that he could be a better fellow, — could do 
 anything, — I mean, if he were sure of being loved 
 in return." 
 
 " Not of the least use in the world for him to 
 say he could be better. Might, could, would, — they 
 are contemptible auxiliaries." 
 
 " I don't see how a man is to be good for much 
 unless he has some one woman to love him 
 dearly." 
 
 " I think the goodness should come before he 
 expects that."
 
 i88 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 "You know better, Mary. Women don't love 
 men for their goodness." 
 
 " Perhaps not. But if they love them, they never 
 think them bad." 
 
 " It is hardly fair to say I am bad." 
 
 " I said nothing at all about you." 
 
 " I never shall be good for anything, Mary, if you 
 will not say that you love me, — if you will not 
 promise to marry me, — I mean when I am able to 
 marry." 
 
 " If I did love you, I would not marry you : I 
 would certainly not promise ever to marry you." 
 
 " I think that is quite wicked, Mary. If you love 
 me, you ought to promise to marry me." 
 
 " On the contrary, I think it would be wicked in 
 me to marry you even if I did love you." 
 
 " You mean, just as I am, without any means of 
 maintaining a wife. Of course : I am but three- 
 and-twenty." 
 
 " In that last point you will alter. But I am not 
 so sure of any other alteration. My father says an 
 idle man ought not to exist, much less be married." 
 
 " Then I am to blow my brains out ? " 
 
 " No ; on the whole I should think you would do 
 better to pass your examination. I have heard Mr. 
 i'arebrother say it is disgracefully easy." 
 
 " That is all very fine. Anything is easy to him. 
 Not that cleverness has anything to do with it. I 
 am ten times cleverer than many men who pass." 
 
 " Dear me ! " said Mary, unable to repress her 
 sarcasm; "that accounts for the curates like Mr. 
 Crowse. Divide your cleverness by ten, and the 
 quotient — dear me ! — is able to take a degree. 
 But that only shows you are ten times more idle 
 than the others."
 
 OLD AND YOUNG. 189 
 
 " Well, if I did pass, you would not want me to 
 go into the Church ?" 
 
 " That is not the question, — what I want you to 
 do. You have a conscience of your own, I suppose. 
 There ! there is Mr. Lydgate. I must go and tell 
 my uncle." 
 
 " Mary, " said Fred, seizing her hand as she rose, 
 " if you will not give me some encouragement, I 
 shall get worse instead of better. " 
 
 " I will not give you any encouragement, " said 
 Mary, reddening. " Your friends would dislike it, 
 and so would mine. My father would think it a 
 disgrace to me if I accepted a man who got into 
 debt and would not work ! " 
 
 Fred was stung, and released her hand. She 
 walked to the door, but there she turned and said : 
 " Fred, you have always been so good, so generous 
 to me. I am not ungrateful. But never speak to 
 me in that way again. " 
 
 " Very well, " said Fred, sulkily, taking up his 
 hat and whip. His complexion showed patches of 
 pale pink and dead white. Like many a plucked 
 idle young gentleman, he was thoroughly in love, 
 and with a plain girl, who had no money! But 
 having Mr. Featherstone's land in the background, 
 and a persuasion that, let Mary say what she 
 would, she really did care for him, Fred was not 
 utterly in despair. 
 
 When he got home, he gave four of the twenties 
 to his mother, asking her to keep them for him. 
 " I don't want to spend that money, mother. I 
 want it to pay a debt with. So keep it safe away 
 from my fingers. " 
 
 " Bless you, my dear, " said Mrs. Vincy. She 
 doted on her eldest son and her youngest girl (a
 
 I90 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 child of six), whom others thought her two naugh- 
 tiest children. The mother's eyes are not always 
 deceived in their partiality : she at least can best 
 judge who is the tender, filial-hearted child. And 
 Fred was certainly very fond of his mother. Per- 
 haps it was his fondness for another person also 
 that made him particularly anxious to take some 
 security against his own liability to spend the 
 hundred pounds. For the creditor to whom he 
 owed a hundred and sixty held a firmer security in 
 the shape of a bill signed by Mary's father.
 
 CHAPTEE XV. 
 
 " Black eyes you have left, yon aay, 
 Blue eyes fail to draw you ; 
 Yet you seem more rapt to-day 
 Than of old we saw you. 
 
 ** Oh, I track the fairest fair 
 
 Through new haunts of pleasure; 
 Footprints here and echoes there 
 Guide me to my treasure : 
 
 " Lo ! she turns — immortal youth 
 Wrought to mortal stature, 
 Fresh as starlight's aged truth, — 
 Many-named Nature ! " 
 
 A GREAT historian, as he insisted on calling him- 
 self, who had the happiness to he dead a hundred 
 and twenty years ago, and so to take his place 
 among the colossi whose huge legs our living petti- 
 ness is observed to walk under, glories in his copi- 
 ous remarks and digressions as the least imitable 
 part of his work, and especially in those initial 
 chapters to the successive books of his history, 
 where he seems to bring his arm-chair to the pro- 
 scenium 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 meas- 
 ured by our needs), when summer afternoons were 
 spacious, and the clock ticked slowly in the winter 
 evenings. We belated historians must not linger 
 after his example ; and if we did so, it is probable 
 that our chat would be thin and eager, as if deliv- 
 ered from a camp-stool in a parrot-house. I at
 
 192 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 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 universe. 
 
 At present I have to make the new settler Lyd- 
 gate 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 Middle- 
 march. 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 re- 
 main virtually unknown, — known merely as a 
 cluster of signs for his neighbours' false supposi- 
 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 train- 
 ing of the most skittish or vicious diseases. The 
 evidence of his cleverness was of the higher intui- 
 tive 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 " re- 
 garding Toller and " the lowering system " as medi- 
 cal perdition. For the heroic times of copious 
 bleeding and blistering had not yet departed, still 
 less the times of thorough-going theory, when dis- 
 ease in general was called by some bad name, and
 
 OLD AND YOUNG. 193 
 
 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 strength - 
 eners and the lowerevs were all " clever " men in 
 somebody's opinion, which is really as much as 
 can be said for any living talents. Nobody's im- 
 agination had gone so far as to conjecture that Mr. 
 Lydgate could know as much as Dr. Sprague and 
 Dr. Minchiu, 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 general impression that Lydgate 
 was something rather more uncommon than any 
 general practitioner in Middlemarch. And this 
 was true. He was but seven-and-twenty, an age at 
 which many men are not quite common, — at 
 which they are hopeful of achievement, resolute in 
 avoidance, thinking that Mammon shall never put 
 a bit in their mouths and get astride their bac'ks, 
 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 a 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 guardians 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 something 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 
 
 VOL. 1. — 13
 
 194 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 morning or evening hour when we got on a high 
 stool to reach down an untried volume, or sat with 
 parted lips listening to a new talker, or for very 
 lack of books began to listen to the voices within, 
 as the first traceable beginning of our love. Some- 
 thing 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 Easselas 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 running 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 
 Adventures of a Guinea, " which was neither milk 
 for babes, nor any chalky mixture 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 classics and mathematics, 
 he was not pre-eminent in them. It was said of 
 him that Lydgate could do anything he liked, but 
 he had certainly not yet liked to do anything re- 
 markable. 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 neces- 
 sary for mature life. Probably this 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.
 
 OLD AND YOUNG. 195 
 
 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 vain ! unless, indeed, lie 
 took down a dusty row of volumes with gray-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 stood 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 was not much acquainted 
 with valves of any sort, but he knew that valvce 
 were folding-doors, and through this crevice came 
 a sudden light startling him with his first vivid 
 notion of finely adjusted mechanism in the human 
 frame. 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 struc- 
 ture, had left his imagination quite unbiassed, so 
 that for anything he knew his brains lay in small 
 bags at his temples, and he had no more thought 
 of representing to himself how his blood circulated 
 than how paper served 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 presentiment of endless processes 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.
 
 196 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 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 stu- 
 pidity that we are never weary of describing what 
 King James called a woman's " makdom and her 
 fairnesse, " never weary of listening to the twang- 
 ing of the old Troubadour strings, and are compara- 
 tively uninterested in that other kind of " makdom 
 and fairnesse " which must be wooed with indus- 
 trious thought and patient renunciation of small 
 desires ? In the story of this passion, too, the 
 development varies : sometimes it is the glorious 
 marriage, sometimes frustration 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 con- 
 sciousness ; for perhaps their ardour in generous 
 unpaid toil cooled as imperceptibly as the ardour 
 of other youthful loves, till one day their earlier 
 self walked like a ghost in its old home and made 
 the new furniture ghastly. Nothing in the world 
 more subtle than the process of their gradual 
 change! In the beginning they inhaled it un- 
 knowingly : you and I may have sent some of our 
 breath towards infecting them, when we uttered 
 our conforming falsities or drew our silly conclu- 
 sions : or pei'haps it came with the vibrations from 
 a woman's glance.
 
 OLD AND YOUNG. 197 
 
 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 profes- 
 sional enthusiasm : he had a youthful belief in his 
 bread-winning work, not to be stiiled by that initi- 
 ation in makeshift called his 'prentice days ; and 
 he carried to his studies in London, Edinburgh, 
 and Paris the conviction that the medical profes- 
 sion as it might be was the finest in the world ; 
 presenting the most perfect interchange between 
 science and art ; offering the most direct alliance 
 between intellectual conquest and the social good. 
 Lydgate 's nature demanded this combination: he 
 was an emotional creature, with a flesh -and-blood 
 sense of fellowship which withstood all the ab- 
 stractions 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 deco- 
 rations 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 s'^me 
 provincial town as a general practitioner, and 
 resist the irrational severance between medical and 
 surgical knowledge in the interest of his own 
 scientific pursuits, as well as of the general ad- 
 vance : he would keep away from the range of 
 London intrigues, jealousies, and social truckling, 
 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
 
 198 MIDDLExAIARCH. 
 
 eff<jrts to secure purity of knowledge by making it 
 scarce, and to exclude error by a rigid exclusive- 
 ness in relation to fees and appointments, it hap- 
 pened 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 rarefied medi- 
 cal instruction obtained by graduates of Oxford 
 and Cambridge, did not hinder quackery from hav- 
 ing an excellent time of it ; for since professional 
 practice chiefly consisted in giving 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 making 
 an advantageous difference to the viscera of his 
 own patients. But he did not simply aim at a 
 more genuine kind of practice than was common. 
 He was ambitious of a wider effect : he was fired 
 with the possibility that he might work out the 
 proof of an anatomical conception, and make a link 
 in the chain of discovery. 
 
 Does it seem incongruous to you that a Middle-
 
 OLD AND YOUNG. 199 
 
 march surgeon should dream of himself as a dis- 
 coverer ? Most of us, indeed, know little of the 
 great originators until they have been lifted up 
 among the constellations and already rule our fates. 
 But that Herschel, for example, who " broke the 
 barriers of the heavens, " — did he not once play 
 a provincial church-organ, and give music-lessons 
 to stumbling pianists ? 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 
 him a title to everlasting fame : each of them had 
 his little local personal history sprinkled 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 seven-and-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 profes- 
 sion. 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 further his judg- 
 ment in special cases, would further his thought 
 as an instrument 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 cf far-reach- 
 ing investigation. On one point he may fairly
 
 200 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 claim approval at this particular stage of his 
 career : he did not mean to imitate those philan- 
 thropic models who make a profit out of poisonous 
 pickles to support themselves while they are ex- 
 posing adulteration, or hold shares in a gambling- 
 hell that they may have leisure to represent the 
 cause of public morality. He intended 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 anatomi- 
 cal conception. One of these reforms was to act 
 stoutly on the strength of a recent legal decision, 
 and simply prescribe, without dispensing drugs 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 in- 
 novate in his treatment also, and he was wise 
 enough to see that the best security for his prac- 
 tising honestly according to his belief was to get 
 rid of systematic temptations to the contrary. 
 
 Perhaps that was a more cheerful time for ob- 
 servers and theorizers than the present ; we are apt 
 to think it the finest era of the world when Amer- 
 ica 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 be- 
 came interested in special questions of disease, 
 such as the nature of fever or fevers, the more 
 keenly he felt the nesjd for that fundamental
 
 OLD AND YOUNG. 201 
 
 knowledge of structure which just at the begin- 
 ning of the century had been illuminated by the 
 brief and glorious career of Bichat, who died when 
 he was only one-and-thirty, but, like another 
 Alexander, left a reahn large enough for many 
 heirs. That great Frenchman first carried out the 
 conception that living bodies, fundamentally con- 
 sidered, 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 — brain, heart, lungs, 
 and so on — are compacted, as the various accom- 
 modations of a house are built up in various pro- 
 portions of wood, iron, stone, brick, zinc, and the 
 rest, each material having its peculiar composition 
 and proportions. No man, one sees, can under- 
 stand 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 his 
 detailed study of the different tissues, acted neces- 
 sarily on medical questions as the turning of gas- 
 light would act on a dim, oil-lit street, showing 
 new connections and hitherto hidden facts of 
 structure which must be taken into account in 
 considering the symptoms of maladies and the 
 action of medicaments. But results which depend 
 on human conscience and intelligence work slowly, 
 and now, at the end of 1829, most medical practice 
 was still strutting or shambling along 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
 
 202 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 facts ill the living organisui, marking the limit of 
 anatomical analysis ; but it was open to another 
 mind to say, have not these structures some com- 
 mon basis from which they have all started, as 
 your sarsenet, gauze, net, satin, and velvet from 
 the raw cocoon ? Here would be another light, as 
 of oxyhydrogeu, showing the very grain of things, 
 and revising all former explanations. Of this 
 sequence to Bichat's work, already vibrating along 
 many currents of the European mind, Lydgate was 
 enamoured ; he longed to demonstrate the more 
 intimate relations of living 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 missing of the right word befalls many 
 seekers. And he counted on quiet intervals to be 
 watchfully seized, 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 future : to do good small 
 work for Middlemarch, and great work for the 
 world. 
 
 He was certainly a happy fellow at this time : 
 to be seven-and-twenty, 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 cult'us of horse- 
 flesh and other mystic rites of costly observance, 
 which the eight hundred pounds lefi him after
 
 OLD AND YOUNG. 203 
 
 buying his practice would certainly not have gone 
 far in paying for. He was at a starting-point 
 which makes many a man's career a fine subject 
 for betting, if there were any gentlemen given to 
 that amusement who could appreciate the compli- 
 cated probabilities of an arduous purpose, with all 
 the possible thwartings and furtherings of circum • 
 stance, all the niceties of inward balance, by whicl'. 
 a man swims and makes his point or else is carried 
 headlong. The risk 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 ex- 
 panding. 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 disdainful ; 
 whose distinguished mind is a little spotted with 
 commonness ; who is a little pinched here and 
 protuberant there with native prejudices ; or whose 
 better energies are liable to lapse down the wrong 
 channel under the influence of transient solicita- 
 tions ? All these things might be alleged against 
 Lydgate, but then, they are the periphrases of a 
 polite preacher, who talks of Adam, and would 
 not like to mention anything painful to the pew- 
 renters. The particular faults from which these 
 delicate generalities are distilled have distinguish- 
 able physiognomies, diction, accent, and grimaces ; 
 filling up parts in very various dramas. Our vani- 
 ties differ as our noses do : all conceit is not the 
 same conceit, but varies in correspondence with 
 the minutite of mental make in which one of us
 
 204 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 differs from another. Lydgate's conceit was of 
 the arrogant sort, never simpering, never imperti- 
 nent, 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 Simonians 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 barytone, whose clothes hung well 
 upon him, and who even in his ordinary gestures 
 liad an air of inbred distinction. Where then lay 
 the spots of commonness ? says a young lady enam- 
 oured of that careless grace. How could there be 
 any commonness in a man so well-bred, so ambi- 
 tious 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 bur- 
 lesque. 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 distinction of mind which belonged to his 
 intellectual ardour did not penetrate his feeling 
 and judgment about furniture, or women, or the 
 desirability of its being known (without his tell- 
 ing) that he was better born than other country 
 surgeons. He did not mean to think of furniture 
 at present ; but whenever he did so it was to be
 
 OLD AND YOUNG. 205 
 
 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 being 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 
 swerving of passion to which he was prone, to- 
 gether 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 Paris, and jvist 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 facts he needed, he left his frogs and 
 rabbits to some repose under their trying and mys- 
 terious 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-design- 
 ing 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 
 Proven^-ale, 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 soft cooing. She had but
 
 2o6 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 lately come to Paris, and bore a virtuous reputa- 
 tion, her husband acting with her as the unfortu- 
 nate 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 him- 
 self under the breath of the sweet south on a bank 
 of violets for a while, without prejudice to his 
 galvanism, to whicn he would presently return. 
 But this evening the old drama had a new catas- 
 trophe. At the moment when the heroine was to 
 act the stabbing of her lover, and he was to fall 
 gracefully, the wife veritably stabbed her husband, 
 who fell as death willed. A wild shriek pierced 
 the house, and the Provencale 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 a 
 murder? Some of the actress's warmest admirers 
 were inclined to believe in her guilt, and liked 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 im- 
 personal passion for her beauty which he had felt 
 before, had passed now into personal devotion, and 
 tender thought of her lot. 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 grave conse- 
 quences. The legal investigation ended in Ma-
 
 OLD AND YOUNG. 207 
 
 dame 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 melan- 
 choly, and seemed grateful ; her presence was 
 enough, like that of the evening light. Lydgate 
 was madly anxious about her affection, and jealous 
 lest any other man than himself should win it and 
 ask her to marry him. But instead of reopening her 
 engagement at the Porte Saint Martin, where she 
 would have been all the more popular for the fatal 
 episode, she left Paris without warning, forsaking 
 her little court of admirers. Perhaps no one car- 
 ried inquiry far except Lydgate, who felt that all 
 science had come to a stand-still while he ima- 
 gined the unhappy Laure, stricken by ever-wan- 
 dering sorrow, herself wandering, and finding no 
 faithful comforter. Hidden actresses, however, are 
 not so difficult to find as some other hidden facts, 
 and it was not long before Lydgate gathered indi- 
 cations that Laure had taken the route to Lyons. 
 He found her at last acting with great success at 
 Avignon under the same name, looking more ma- 
 jestic than ever as a forsaken wife carrying her 
 child in her arms. He spoke to her after the play, 
 was received with the usual quietude, which seemed 
 to him beautiful as clear depths of water, and ob- 
 tained leave to visit her the next day ; when he 
 was bent on telling her that he adored her, and on 
 asking her to marry him. He knew that this was 
 like the sudden impulse of a madman, — • incongru- 
 ous even with his habitual foibles. No matter ! 
 It was the one thing which he was resolved to do. 
 He had two selves within him apparently, and 
 they must learn to accommodate each other and
 
 2o8 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 bear reciprocal impediments. Strange, that some 
 of us, with quick alternate vision, see beyond our 
 infatuations, and even while we rave on the 
 heights, behold the wide plain where our persis- 
 tent self pauses and awaits us. 
 
 To have approached Laure with any suit that was 
 not reverentially tender would have been simply a 
 contradiction of his whole feeling towards her. 
 
 " You have come all the way from Paris to find 
 me ? " she said to him the next day, sitting before 
 him with folded arms, and looking at him with 
 eyes that seemed to wonder as an untamed rumi- 
 nating animal wonders. " Are all Englishmen like 
 that ? " 
 
 " I came because I could not live without trying 
 to see you. You are lonely ; I love you ; I want 
 you to consent to be my wife ; T will wait, but I 
 want you to promise that you will marry me, — 
 no one else. " 
 
 Laure looked at him in silence with a melan- 
 choly radiance from under her grand eyelids, until 
 he was full of rapturous certainty, and knelt close 
 to her knees. 
 
 " I will tell you something, " she said, in her 
 cooing way, keeping her arms folded. " My foot 
 really slipped. " 
 
 " I know, I know, " said Lydgate, deprecatingly. 
 " It was a fatal accident, — a dreadful stroke of 
 calamity that bound me to you the more. " 
 
 Again Laure paused a little, and then said 
 slowly, " / meant to do it. " 
 
 Lydgate, strong man as he was, turned pale and 
 trembled : moments seemed to pass before he rose 
 and stood at a distance from her. 
 
 " There was a secret, then, " he said at last, even
 
 OLD AND YOUNG. 209 
 
 vehemently. " He was brutal to you : you hated 
 him. " 
 
 " No I he wearied me ; he was too fond : he 
 would live in Paris, and not in my country ; that 
 was not agreeable to me. " 
 
 " Great God ! " said Lydgate, in a groan of hor- 
 ror. " And you planned to murder him ? " 
 
 " I did not plan : it came to me in the play, — 
 / meant to do it. " 
 
 Lydgate stood mute, and unconsciously pressed 
 his hat on while he looked at her. He saw this 
 woman — the first to whom he had given his 
 young adoration — amid the throng of stupid 
 criminals. 
 
 " You are a good young man, " she said. " But 
 I do not like husbands. I will never have 
 another. " 
 
 Three days afterwards Lydgate was at his gal- 
 vanism again in his Paris chambers, believing that 
 illusions were at an end for him. He was saved 
 from hardening effects by the abundant kindness 
 of his heart, and his belief that human life might 
 be made better. But he had more reason than 
 ever for trusting his judgment, now that it was so 
 experienced ; and henceforth he would take a 
 strictly scientific view of woman, entertaining no 
 expectations but such as were justified beforehand. 
 
 No one in Middlemarch was likely to have such 
 a notion of Lydgate 's past as has here been faintly 
 shadowed, and indeed the respectable townsfolk 
 there were not more given than mortals generally 
 to any eager attempt at exactness in the represen - 
 tation to themselves of what did not come under 
 their own senses. Not only young virgins of that 
 town, but gray-bearded men also, were often in 
 
 VOL. I. — 14
 
 2IO MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 haste to conjecture how a new acquaintance might 
 be wrought into their purposes, contented with 
 very vague knowledge as to the way in which life 
 had been shaping him for that instrumentality. 
 Middlemarch, in fact, counted on swallowing Lyd- 
 gate and assimilating him very comfortably.
 
 CHAPTEE XVI. 
 
 All that in woman is adored 
 
 In thy fair self I find — 
 For the whole sex can but afford 
 
 The handsome and the kind. 
 
 Sir Charles Sedlet. 
 
 The question whether Mr. Tyke should be ap- 
 pointed ao salaried chaplain to the hospital was an 
 exciting topic to the Middlemarchers ; and Lydgate 
 heard it discussed in a way that threw much light 
 on the power exercised in the town by Mr. Bul- 
 strode. The banker was evidently a ruler, but 
 there was an opposition party, and even among his 
 supporters there were some who allowed it to be 
 seen that their support was a compromise, and 
 who frankly stated their impression that the gen- 
 eral scheme of things, and especially the casualties 
 of trade, required you to hold a candle to the 
 devil. 
 
 Mr. Bulstrode's power was not due simply to 
 his being a country banker, who knew the iinan- 
 cial secrets of most traders in the town and could 
 touch the springs of their credit ; it was fortified 
 by a beneficence that was at once ready and severe, 
 — ready to confer obligations, and severe in watch- 
 ing the result. He had gathered, as an industrious 
 man always at his post, a chief share in adminis- 
 tering the town charities, and his private charities 
 were both minute and abundant. He would take 
 a great deal of pains about apprenticing Tegg the
 
 212 MID DLEM ARCH. 
 
 shoemaker's son, and he would watch over Tegg's 
 church -going ; he would defend Mrs. Strype the 
 washerwoman against Stubbs's unjust exaction on 
 the score of her drying-ground, and he would him- 
 self scrutinize a calumny against Mrs. Strype. 
 His private minor loans were numerous, but he 
 would inquire strictly into the circumstances both 
 before and after. In this way a man gathers a 
 domain in his neighbours' hope and fear as well 
 as gratitude ; and power, when once it has got into 
 that subtle region, propagates itself spreading out 
 of all proportion to its external means. It was 
 a principle with Mr. Bulstrode to gain as much 
 power as possible, that he might use it for the 
 glory of God. He went through a great deal of 
 spiritual conflict and inward argument in order 
 to adjust his motives, and make clear to himself 
 what God's glory required. But, as we have seen, 
 his motives were not always rightly appreciated. 
 There were many crass minds in Middlemarch 
 whose reflective scales could only weigh things in 
 the lump ; and they had a strong suspicion that 
 since Mr. Bulstrode could not enjoy life in their 
 fashion, eating and drinking so little as he did, 
 and worreting himself about everything, he must 
 have a sort of vampire's feast in the sense of 
 mastery. 
 
 The subject of the chaplaincy came up at Mr. 
 Vincy's table when Lydgate was dining there, and 
 the family connection with Mr. Bulstrode did not, 
 he observed, prevent some freedom of remark even 
 on the part of the host himself, though his reasons 
 against the proposed arrangement turned entirely 
 on his objection to Mr. Tyke's sermons, which were 
 all doctrine, and his preference for Mr. Farebrother,
 
 OLD AND YOUNG. 213 
 
 •whose sermons were free from that taint. Mr. 
 Vincy liked well enough the notion of the chap- 
 lain's having a salary, supposing it were given to 
 Farebrother, who was as good a little fellow as 
 ever breathed, and the best preacher anywhere, 
 and companionable too. 
 
 " What line shall you take, then ? " said Mr. 
 Chichely, the coroner, a great coursing comrade of 
 Mr. Vincy 's. 
 
 " Oh, I 'm precious glad I 'm not one of the 
 Directors now. I shall vote for referring the mat- 
 ter to the Directors and the Medical Board to- 
 gether. I shall roll some of my responsibility on 
 your shoulders, Doctor, " said Mr. Vincy, glancing 
 first at Dr. Sprague, the senior physician of the 
 town, and then at Lydgate, who sat opposite. 
 " You medical gentlemen must consult which sort 
 of black draught you will prescribe, eh, Mr. 
 Lydgate?" ' 
 
 " I know little of either, " said Lydgate ; " but 
 in general, appointments are apt to be made too 
 much a question of personal liking. The fittest 
 man for a particular post is not always the best 
 fellow or the most agreeable. Sometimes, if you 
 wanted to get a reform, your only way would be to 
 pension off the good fellows whom everybody is 
 fond of, and put them out of the question. " 
 
 Dr. Sprague, who was considered the physician 
 of most " weight, " though Dr. Minchin was usu • 
 ally said to have more " penetration," divested his 
 large heavy face of all expression, and looked at 
 his wineglass while Lydgate was speaking. What- 
 ever was not problematical and suspected about 
 this young man —for example, a certain shovri - 
 ness as to foreign ideas, and a disposition to unset
 
 214 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 tie what had been settled and forgotten by his 
 elders — was positively unwelcome to a physician 
 whose standing had been fixed thirty years before 
 by a treatise on Meningitis, of which at least one 
 copy marked " own " was bound in calf. For ray 
 part I have some fellow-feeling with Dr. Sprague : 
 one's self-satisfaction is an untaxed kind of prop- 
 erty which it is very unpleasant to find depreciated. 
 
 Lydgate's remark, however, did not meet the 
 sense of the company. Mr. Vincy said that if he 
 could have his way, he would not put disagreeable 
 fellows anywhere. 
 
 " Hang your reforms ! " said Mr. Chichely. 
 " There 's no greater humbug in the world. You 
 never hear of a reform, but it means some trick to 
 put in new men. I hope you are not one of the 
 'Lancet's' men, Mr. Lydgate, — wanting to take 
 the coronership out of the hands of the legal pro- 
 fession : your words appear to point that way. " 
 
 " I disapprove of Wakley, " interposed Dr. 
 Sprague, " no man more : he is an ill-intentioned 
 fellow, who would sacrifice the respectability of 
 the profession, which everybody knows depends 
 on the London Colleges, for the sake of getting 
 «ome notoriety for himself. There are men who 
 don't mind about being kicked blue if they can 
 only get talked about. But Wakley is right some- 
 times, " the Doctor added judicially. " I could 
 mention one or two points in which Wakley is in 
 the right. " 
 
 " Oh, well, " said Mr. Chichely, " I blame no 
 man for standing up in favour of his own cloth ; 
 but, coming to argument, I should like to know 
 how a coroner is to judge of evidence if he has not 
 had a legal training ? "
 
 OLD AND YOUNG. 215 
 
 " In my opinion, " said Lydgate, " legal training 
 only makes a man more incompetent in questions 
 that require knowledge of another kind. People 
 talk about evidence as if it could really be weighed 
 in scales by a blind Justice. No man can judge 
 what is good evidence on any particular subject, 
 unless he knows that subject well. A lawyer is 
 no better than an old woman at a -post-ynortem ex- 
 amination. How is he to know the action of a 
 poison ? You might as well say that scanning 
 verse will teach you to scan the potato crops. " 
 
 " You are aware, I suppose, that it is not the 
 coroner's business to conduct the post-mortem, but 
 only to take the evidence of the medical witness ?" 
 said Mr. Chichely, with some scorn. 
 
 " Who is often almost as ignorant as the coroner 
 himself," said Lydgate. "Questions of medical 
 jurisprudence ought not to be left to the chance of 
 decent knowledge in a medical witness, and the 
 coroner ought not to be a man who will believe 
 that strychnine will destroy the coats of the stom- 
 ach if an ignorant practitioner happens to tell him 
 so. " 
 
 Lydgate had really lost sight of the fact that Mr. 
 Chichely was his Majesty's coroner, and ended in- 
 nocently with the question, " Don't you agree with 
 me, Dr. Sprague ? " 
 
 " To a certain extent, — with regard to populous 
 districts, and in the metropolis, " said the Doctor. 
 " But I hope it will be long before this part of the 
 country loses the services of my friend Chichely, 
 even though it might get the best man in our pro- 
 fession to succeed him. I am sure Vincy will 
 agree with me. " 
 
 " Yes, yes, give me a coroner who is a good
 
 2i6 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 coursing man," said Mr. Vincy, jovially. "And 
 in rny opinion, you 're safest with a lawyer. No- 
 body can know everything. Most things are ' visi- 
 tation of God. ' And as to poisoning, why, what 
 you want to know is the law. Come, shall we 
 join the ladies ? " 
 
 Lydgate's private opinion was that Mr. Chichely 
 might be the very coroner without bias as to the 
 coats of the stomach, but he had not meant to be 
 personal. This was one of the difficulties of moving 
 in good Middlemarch society : it was dangerous to 
 insist on knowledge as a qualification for any sala- 
 ried office. Fred Vincy had called Lydgate a prig, 
 and now Mr. Chichely was inclined to call him 
 prick-eared; especially when, in the drawing-room, 
 he seemed to be making himself eminently agree- 
 able to Eosamond, whom he had easily monopolized 
 in a tete-a-tete, since Mrs. Vincy herself sat at the 
 tea-table. She resigned no domestic function to 
 her daughter; and the matron's blooming good- 
 natured face, with the two volatile pink strings 
 floating from her fine throat, and her cheery man- 
 ners to husband and children, was certainly among 
 the great attractions of the Vincy house, — attrac- 
 tions which made it all the easier to fall in love 
 with the daughter. The tinge of unpretentious 
 inoffensive vulgarity in Mrs. Vincy gave more 
 effect to Eosamond 's refinement, which was beyond 
 what Lydgate had expected. 
 
 Certainly, small feet and perfectly turned shoul- 
 ders aid the impression of refined manners, and 
 the right thing said seems quite astonishingly 
 right when it is accompanied with exquisite curves 
 of lip and eyelid. And Rosamond could say the 
 right thing ; for she was clever with that sort of
 
 OLD AND YOUNG. 217 
 
 cleverness which catches every tone except the 
 humorous. Happily she never attempted to joke, 
 and this perhaps was the most decisive mark of 
 her cleverness. 
 
 She and Lydgate readily got into conversation. 
 He regretted that he had not heard her sing the 
 other day at Stone Court. The only pleasure he 
 allowed himself during the latter part of his stay 
 in Paris was to go and hear music. 
 
 " You have studied music, probably ? " said 
 Rosamond. 
 
 " No, I know the notes of many birds, and I 
 know many melodies by ear ; but the music that I 
 don't know at all, and have no notion about, de- 
 lights me, — affects me. How stupid the world is 
 that it does not make more use of such a pleasure 
 within its reach I " 
 
 " Yes, and you will find Middlemarch very 
 tuneless. There are hardly any good musicians. 
 T only know two gentlemen who sing at all well. " 
 
 " I suppose it is the fashion to sing comic songs 
 in a rhythmic way, leaving you to fancy the tune, 
 — very much as if it were tapped on a drum ? " 
 
 " Ah, you have heard Mr. Bowyer, " said Rosa- 
 mond, with one of her rare smiles. " But we are 
 speaking very ill of our neighbours. " 
 
 Lydgate was almost forgetting that he must 
 carry on the conversation, in thinking how lovely 
 this creature was, her garment seeming to be made 
 out of the faintest blue sky, herself so immacu- 
 lately blond, as if the petals of some gigantic 
 flower had just opened and disclosed her ; and yet 
 with this infantine blondness showing so much 
 ready, self-possessed grace. Since he had had the 
 memory of Laure, Lydgate had lost all taste for
 
 2t8 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 large-eyed silence : the divine cow no longer at- 
 tracted him, and Eosaraond was her very opposite. 
 But he recalled himself. 
 
 " You will let me hear some music to-night, I 
 hope. " 
 
 " I will let you hear my attempts, if you like, " 
 said Eosamond. " Papa is sure to insist on my 
 singing. But I shall tremble before you, who 
 have heard the best singers in Paris. I have heard 
 very little : I have only once been to London. But 
 our organist at St. Peter's is a good musician, and 
 I go on studying with him. " 
 
 " Tell me what you saw in London. " 
 
 " Very little. " (A more naive girl would have 
 said, " Oh, everything ! " But Eosamond knew 
 better. ) " A few of the ordinary sights, such as 
 raw country girls are always taken to. " 
 
 " Do you call yourself a raw country girl ? " said 
 Lydgate, looking at her with an involuntary em- 
 phasis of admiration, which made Eosamond blush 
 with pleasure. But she remained simply serious, 
 turned her long neck a little, and put up her hand 
 to touch her wondrous hair-plaits, — an habitual 
 gesture with her as pretty as any movements of a 
 kitten's paw. Not that Eosamond was in the least 
 like a kitten : she was a sylph caught young and 
 educated at Mrs. Lemon's. 
 
 " I assure you my mind is raw, " she said imme- 
 diately ; " I pass at Middlemarch. I am not afraid 
 of talking to our old neighbours. But I am really 
 afraid of you. " 
 
 " An accomplished woman almost always knows 
 more than we men, though her knowledge is of a 
 different sort. I am sure you could teach me a 
 thousand things, — as an exquisite bird could teach
 
 OLD AND YOUNG. 219 
 
 a bear if there were any common language between 
 them. Happily, there is a common language be 
 tween women and men, and so the bears can get 
 taught. " 
 
 " Ah, there is Fred beginning to strum I I must 
 go and hinder him from jarring all your nerves, " 
 said Rosamond, moving to the other side of the room, 
 where Fred having opened the piano, at his father's 
 desire, that Rosamond might give them some mu- 
 sic, was parenthetically performing " Cherry Ripe !" 
 with one hand. Able men who have passed their 
 examinations will do these things sometimes, not 
 less than the plucked Fred. 
 
 " Fred, pray defer your practising till to-morrow ; 
 you will make Mr. Lydgate ill, " said Rosamond. 
 " He has an ear. " 
 
 Fred laughed, and went on with his tune to the 
 end. 
 
 Rosamond turned to Lydgate, smiling gently, 
 and said, " You perceive, the bears will not always 
 be taught. " 
 
 " Now then, Rosy!" said Fred, springing from 
 the stool and twisting it upward for her, with a 
 hearty expectation of enjoyment. " Some good 
 rousing tunes first. " 
 
 Rosamond played admirably. Her master at 
 Mrs. Lemon's school (close to a county town with 
 a memorable history that had its relics in church 
 and castle) was one of those excellent musicians 
 here and there to be found in our provinces, worthy 
 to compare with many a noted Kapellmeister in a 
 country which offers more plentiful conditions of 
 musical celebrity. Rosamond, with the execu- 
 tant's instinct, had seized his manner of playing, 
 and gave forth his large rendering of noble music
 
 220 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 with the precision of an echo. It was almost 
 startling, heard for the first time. A hidden soul 
 seemed to be flowing forth from Eosamond's fin- 
 gers ; and so indeed it was, since souls live on in 
 perpetual echoes, and to all fine expression there 
 goes somewhere an originating activity, if it be 
 only that of an interpreter. Lydgate was taken 
 possession of, and began to believe in her as some- 
 thing exceptional. After all, he thought, one 
 need not be surprised to find the rare conjunctions 
 of nature under circumstances apparently unfav- 
 ourable : come where they may, they always de- 
 pend on conditions that are not obvious. He sat 
 looking at her, and did not rise to pay her any 
 compliments, leaving that to others, now that his 
 admiration was deepened. 
 
 Her singing was less remarkable, but also well 
 trained, and sweet to hear as a chime perfectly 
 in tune. It is true she sang " Meet me by Moon- 
 light," and "I've been roaming;" for mortals 
 must share the fashions of their time, and none 
 but the ancients can be always classical. But 
 Eosamond could also sing " Black- eyed Susan " 
 with effect, or Haydn's canzonets, or " Yoi, che 
 sapete, " or " Batti, batti, ' — she only wanted to 
 know what her audience liked. 
 
 Her father looked round at the company, de- 
 lighting in their admiration. Her mother sat, 
 like a Niobe before her troubles with her young- 
 est little girl on her lap, softly beating the child's 
 hand up and down in time to the music. And 
 Fred, notwithstanding his general scepticism about 
 Eosy, listened to her music with perfect allegiance, 
 wishing he could do the same thing on his flute. 
 It was the pleasantest family party that Lydgate
 
 OLD AND YOUNG. 221 
 
 had seen since he came to Middlemarch. The 
 Viucys had the readiness to enjoy, the rejection of 
 all anxiety, and the belief in life as a merry lot, 
 which made a house exceptional in most county 
 towns at that time, when Evangelicalism had cast 
 a certain suspicion as of plague- infection over the 
 few amusements which survived in the provinces. 
 At the Vincys' there was always whist, and the 
 card-tables stood ready now, making some of the 
 company secretly impatient of the music. Before 
 it ceased Mr. Parebrother came in, — a handsome, 
 broad-chested, but otherwise small man, about 
 forty, whose black was very threadbare : the bril- 
 liancy was all in his quick gray eyes. He came 
 like a pleasant change in the light, arresting little 
 Louisa with fatherly nonsense as she was being led 
 out of the room by Miss Morgan, greeting every- 
 body with some special word, and seeming to con- 
 dense more talk into ten minutes than had been 
 held all through the evening. He claimed from 
 Lydgate the fulfilment of a promise to come and 
 see him. " I can't let you off, you know, because 
 I have some beetles to show you. We collectors 
 fsel an interest in every new man till he has seen 
 all we have to show him. " 
 
 But soon he swerved to the whist-table, rubbing 
 his hands and saying, " Come now, let us be seri- 
 ous ! Mr. Lydgate ? not play ? Ah ! you are too 
 young and light for this kind of thing. " 
 
 Lydgate said to himself that the clergyman 
 whose abilities were so painful to Mr. Bulstrode, 
 appeared to have found an agreeable resort in this 
 certainly not erudite household. He could half 
 understand it : the good-humour, the good looks of 
 elder and younger, and the provision for passing
 
 222 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 the time without any labour of intelligeuce, might 
 make the house beguiling to people, who had no 
 particular use for their odd hours. 
 
 Everything looked blooming and joyous except 
 Miss Morgan, who was brown, d\\\\, and resigned, 
 and altogether, as Mrs. Vincy often said, just the 
 sort of person for a governess. Lydgate did not 
 mean to pay many such visits himself. They were 
 a wretched waste of the evenings ; and now, when 
 he had talked a little more to Eosamond he meant 
 to excuse himself and go. 
 
 " You will not like us at Middlemarch, I feel 
 sure, " she said, when the whist-players were set- 
 tled. " We are very stupid, and you have been 
 used to something quite different. " 
 
 " I suppose all country towns are pretty much 
 alike, " said Lydgate. " But I have noticed that 
 one always believes one's own town to be more 
 stupid than any other. I have made up my mind 
 to take Middlemarch as it comes, and shall be 
 much obliged if the town will take me in the 
 same way. I have certainly found some charms 
 in it which are much greater than I had expected. " 
 
 " You mean the rides towards Tipton and Lo- 
 wick ; every one is pleased with those, " said Eosa- 
 mond, with simplicity. 
 
 " No, I mean something much nearer to me. " 
 
 Eosamond rose and reached her netting, and 
 then said : " Do you care about dancing at all ? I 
 am not quite sure whether clever men ever dance. " 
 
 " I would dance with you if you would allow 
 me." 
 
 " Oh ! " said Eosamond, with a slight depreca- 
 tory laugh, " I was only going to say that we 
 sometimes have dancing, and I wanted to know
 
 OLD AND YOUNG. 223 
 
 whether you would feel insulted if you were asked 
 to come. " 
 
 " Not on the condition I mentioned. " 
 
 After this chat Lydgate thought that he was 
 going, but on moving towards the whist-tables, he 
 got interested in watching Mr. Farebrother's play, 
 which was masterly, and also his face, which was 
 a striking mixture of the shrewd and the mild. 
 At ten o'clock supper was brought in (such were 
 the customs of Middlemarch), and there was 
 punch-drinking; but Mr. Farebrother had only a 
 glass of water. He was winning, but there seemed 
 to be no reason why the renewal of rubbers should 
 end, and Lydgate at last took his leave. 
 
 But as it was not eleven o'clock, he chose to 
 walk in the brisk air towards the tower of St. 
 Botolph's, Mr. Farebrother's church, which stood 
 out dark, square, and massive against the star- 
 light. It was the oldest church in Middlemarch ; 
 the living, however, was but a vicarage worth 
 barely four hundred a year. Lydgate had heard 
 that, and he wondered now whether Mr. Fare- 
 brother cared about the money he won at cards ; 
 thinking, " He seems a very pleasant fellow, but 
 Bulstrode may have his good reasons, " Many 
 things would be easier to Lydgate if it should turn 
 out that Mr. Bulstrode was generally justifiable. 
 " What is his religious doctrine to me, if he carries 
 some good notions along with it ? One must use 
 such brains as are to be found. " 
 
 These were actually Lydgate 's first meditations 
 as he walked away from Mr. Vincy's, and on this 
 ground I fear that many ladies will consider him 
 hardly worthy of their attention. He thought of 
 Eosamond and her music only in the second place ;
 
 224 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 and though, when her turn came, he dwelt on the 
 image of her for the rest of his walk, he felt no 
 agitation, and had no sense that any new current 
 had set into his life. He could not marry yet ; he 
 wished not to marry for several years; and there- 
 fore he was not ready to entertain the notion of 
 being in love witli a girl whom he happened to 
 admire. He did admire Eosamond exceedingly ; 
 but that madness which had once beset him about 
 Laure was not, he thought, likely to recur in rela- 
 tion to any other woman. Certainly, if falling in 
 love had been at all in question, it would have 
 been quite safe with a creature like this Miss 
 Vincy, who had just the kind of intelligence one 
 would desire in a woman, — polished, refined, 
 docile, lending itself to finish in all the delicacies 
 of life, and enshrined in a body which expressed 
 this with a force of demonstration that excluded 
 the need for other evidence. Lydgate felt sure 
 that if ever he married, his wife would have that 
 feminine radiance, that distinctive womanhood 
 which must be classed with flowers and music, 
 that sort of beauty which by its very nature was 
 virtuous, being moulded only for pure and delicate 
 
 joys- 
 
 But since he did not mean to marry for the next 
 five years, — his more pressing business was to 
 look into Louis' new book on Fever, which he was 
 specially interested in, because he had known 
 Louis in Paris, and had followed many anatomical 
 demonstrations in order to ascertain the specific 
 differences of typhus and typhoid. He went home 
 and read far into the smallest hour, bringing a 
 much more testing vision of details and relations 
 into this pathological study than he had ever
 
 OLD AND YOUNG. 225 
 
 thought it necessary to apply to the complexities 
 of love and marriage, these being subjects on 
 which he felt himself amply informed by litera- 
 ture, and that traditional wisdom which is handed 
 down in the genial conversation of men. Whereas 
 Fever had obscure conditions, and gave him that 
 delightful labour of the imagination which is not 
 mere arbitrariness, but the exercise of disciplined 
 power, — combining and constructing with the 
 clearest eye for probabilities and the fullest obedi- 
 ence to knowledge ; and then, in yet more ener- 
 getic alliance with impartial Nature, standing 
 aloof to invent tests by which to try its own 
 work. 
 
 Many men have been praised as vividly imagi- 
 native on the strength of their profuseness in in- 
 different drawing or cheap narration, — reports of 
 very poor talk going on in distant orbs ; or portraits 
 of Lucifer coming down on his bad errands as a 
 large ugly man with bat's wings and spurts of phos- 
 phorescence ; or exaggerations of wantonness that 
 seem to reflect life in a diseased dream. But these 
 kinds of inspiration Lydgate regarded as rather 
 vulgar and vinous compared with the imagination 
 that reveals subtle actions inaccessible by any sort 
 of lens, but tracked in that outer darkness through 
 long pathways of necessary sequence by the in- 
 ward light which is the last refinement of Energy, 
 capable of bathing even the ethereal atoms in its 
 ideally illuminated space. He for his part had 
 tossed away all cheap inventions where ignorance 
 finds itself able and at ease : he was enamoured of 
 that arduous invention which is the very eye of 
 research, provisionally framing its object and cor- 
 recting it to more aad more exactness of relation ; 
 
 VOL. I. — 15
 
 226 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 he wanted to pierce the obscurity of those minute 
 processes which prepare human misery and joy, 
 those invisible thoroughfares which are the first 
 lurking-places of anguish, mania, and criuie, that 
 delicate poise and transition which determine the 
 growth of happy or unhappy consciousness. 
 
 As he threw down his book, stretched his legs 
 towards the embers in the grate, and clasped his 
 hands at the back of his head in that agreeable 
 afterglow of excitement when thought lapses from 
 examination of a specific object into a suffusive 
 sense of its connections with all the rest of our 
 existence, — seems as it were to throw itself on its 
 back after vigorous swimming, and float with the 
 repose of unexhausted strength, — Lydgate felt a 
 triumphant delight in his studies, and something 
 like pity for those less lucky men who were not of 
 his profession. 
 
 " If I had not taken that turn when I was a 
 lad," he thought, "I might have got into some 
 stupid draught-horse work or other, and lived al- 
 ways in blinkers. I should never have been happy 
 in any profession that did not call forth the high- 
 est intellectual strain, and yet keep me in good 
 warm contact with my neighbours. There is 
 nothing like the medical profession for that : one 
 can have the exclusive scientific life that touches 
 the distance and befriend the old fogies in the 
 parish too. It is rather harder for a clergyman : 
 Farebrotlier seems to be an anomaly. " 
 
 This last thought brought back the Vincys and 
 all the pictures of the evening. They floated in 
 his mind agreeably enough, and as he took up his 
 bed-candle his lips were curled with that incipient 
 smile which is apt to accompany agreeable recol-
 
 OLD AND YOUNG. 227 
 
 lections. He was an ardent fellow, but at present 
 his ardour was absorbed in love of his work and in 
 the ambition of making his life recognized as a 
 factor in the better life of mankind, — like other 
 heroes of science who had nothing but an obscure 
 country practice to begin with. 
 
 Poor Lydgate ! or shall I say, Poor Eosamond ! 
 Each lived in a world of which the other knew 
 norhing. It had not occurred to Lydgate that he 
 had been a subject of eager meditation to Rosa- 
 mond, who had neither any reason for throwing 
 her marriage into distant perspective, nor any 
 pathological studies to divert her mind from that 
 ruminating habit, that inward repetition of looks, 
 words, and phrases, which makes a large part in 
 the lives of most girls. He had not meant to look 
 at her or speak to her with more than the inevita- 
 ble amount of admiration and compliment which 
 a man must give to a beautiful girl ; indeed, it 
 seemed to him that his enjoyment of her music 
 had remained almost silent, for he feared falling 
 into the rudeness of telling her his great surprise 
 at her possession of such accomplishment. But 
 Rosamond had registered every look and word, and 
 estimated them as the opening incidents of a pre- 
 conceived romance, — incidents which gather value 
 from the foreseen development and climax. In 
 Rosamond's romance it was not necessary to ima- 
 gine much about the inward life of the hero, or of 
 his serious business in the world : of course, he 
 had a profession and was clever, as well as suffi- 
 ciently handsome ; but the piquant fact about 
 Lydgate was his good birth, which distinguished 
 him from all Middlemarch admirers, and presented 
 marriage as a prospect of rising in rank and getting
 
 228 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 a little nearer to that celestial condition on earth 
 in which she would have nothing to do with vulgar 
 people, and perhaps at last associate with relatives 
 quite equal to the county people who looked down 
 on the Middlemarchers. It was part of Kosa- 
 mond's cleverness to discern very subtly the faint- 
 est aroma of rank, and once when she had seen the 
 Miss Brookes accompanying their uncle at the 
 county assizes, and seated among the aristocracy, 
 she had envied them, notwithstanding their plain 
 dress. 
 
 If you think it incredible that to imagine Lyd- 
 gate as a man of family could cause thrills of satis- 
 faction which had anything to do with the sense 
 that she was in love with him, I will ask you to 
 use your power of comparison a little more effec- 
 tively, and consider whether red cloth and epau- 
 lets have never had an influence of that sort. Our 
 passions do not live apart in locked chambers, but, 
 dressed in their small wardrobe of notions, bring 
 their provisions to a common table and mess to- 
 gether, feeding out of the common store according 
 to their appetite. 
 
 Kosamond, in fact, was entirely occupied not 
 exactly with Tertius Lydgate as he was in himself, 
 but with his relation to her ; and it was excusable 
 in a girl who was accustomed to hear that all 
 young men might, could, would be, or actually 
 were in love with her, to believe at once that Lyd- 
 gate could be no exception. His looks and words 
 meant more to her than other men's, because she 
 cared more for them : she thought of them dili- 
 gently, and diligently attended to that perfection 
 of appearance, behaviour, sentiments, and all other 
 elegances, which would find in Lydgate a more
 
 OLD AND YOUNG. 229 
 
 adequate admirer than she had yet been conscious 
 of. 
 
 For Eosamond, though she would never do any- 
 thing that was disagreeable to her, was industri- 
 ous ; and now more than ever she was active in 
 sketching her landscapes and market-carts and 
 portraits of friends, in practising her music, and 
 in being from morning till night her own standard 
 of a perfect lady, having always an audience in her 
 own consciousness, with sometimes the not unwel- 
 come addition of a more variable external audience 
 in the numerous visitors of the house. She found 
 time also to read the best novels, and even the 
 second best, and she knew much poetry by heart. 
 Her favourite poem was " Lalla Rookh. " 
 
 " The best girl in the world ! He will be a 
 happy fellow who gets her ! " was the sentiment of 
 the elderly gentlemen who visited the Vincys ; 
 and the rejected young men thought of trying 
 again, as is the fashion in country towns where 
 the horizon is not thick with coming rivals. But 
 Mrs. Plymdale thought that Rosamond had been 
 educated to a ridiculous pitch, for what was the 
 use of accomplishments which would be all laid 
 aside as soon as she was married ? While her aunt 
 Bulstrode, who had a sisterly faithfulness towards 
 her brother's family, had two sincere wishes for 
 Rosamond, — that she might show a more serious 
 turn of mind, and that she might meet with a hus- 
 band whose wealth corresponded to her habits.
 
 CHAPTEE XVIL 
 
 " The clerkly person smiled and said. 
 Promise was a pretty maid, 
 But being poor she died unwed." 
 
 The Eev. Camden Farebrother, whom Lydgate 
 went to see the next evening, lived in an old par- 
 sonage, built of stone, venerable enough to match 
 the church which it looked out upon. All the 
 furniture too in the house was old, but with an- 
 other grade of age, — that of Mr. Farebrother 's 
 father and grandfather. There were painted white 
 chairs, with gilding and wreaths on them, and 
 some lingering red silk damask with slits in it. 
 There were engraved portraits of Lord Chancellors 
 and other celebrated lawyers of the last century ; 
 and there were old pier-glasses to reflect them, as 
 well as the little satin-wood tables and the sofas 
 resembling a prolongation of uneasy chairs, all 
 standing in relief against the dark wainscot. This 
 was the physiognomy of the drawing-room into 
 which Lydgate was shown ; and there were three 
 ladies to receive him, who were also old-fashioned, 
 and of a faded but genuine respectability : Mrs. 
 Farebrother, the vicar's white-haired mother, be- 
 frilled and kerchiefed with dainty cleanliness, 
 upright, quick-eyed, and still under seventy ; Miss 
 Noble, her sister, a tiny old lady of meeker as- 
 pect, with frills and kerchief decidedly more worn 
 and mended ; and Miss Winifred Farebrother, the 
 Vicar's elder sister, well-looking like himself, but 
 nipped and subdued as single women are apt to be
 
 OLD AND YOUNG. 231 
 
 who spend their lives in uninterrupted subjection 
 to their elders. Lydgate had not expected to see 
 so quaint a group : knowing simply that Mr. Fare- 
 brother was a bachelor, he had thought of being 
 ushered into a snuggery where the chief furniture 
 would probably be books and collections of natural 
 objects. The Vicar himself seemed to wear rather a 
 changed aspect, as most men do when acquaintances 
 made elsewhere see them for the tirst time in their 
 own homes ; some, indeed, showing like an actor of 
 genial parts disadvantageously cast for the curmud- 
 geon in a new piece. This was not the case with 
 Mr. Farebrother : he seemed a trifle milder and more 
 silent, the chief talker being fiis mother, while he 
 only put in a good-humoured moderating remark 
 here and there. The old lady was evidently accus- 
 tomed to tell her company what they ought to 
 think, and to regard no subject as quite safe with- 
 out her steering. She was afforded leisure for this 
 function by having all her little wants attended to 
 by Miss Winifred. Meanwhile tiny Miss Noble 
 carried on her arm a small basket, into which she 
 diverted a bit of sugar, which she had first dropped 
 in her saucer as if by mistake ; looking round 
 furtively afterwards, and reverting to her teacup 
 with a small innocent noise as of a tiny timid 
 quadruped. Pray think no ill of Miss Noble. That 
 basket held small savings from her more portable 
 food, destined for the children of her poor friends 
 among whom she trotted on fine mornings ; foster- 
 ing and petting all needy creatures being so spon- 
 taneous a delight to her that she regarded it much 
 as if it had been a pleasant vice that she was 
 addicted to. Perhaps she was conscious of being 
 tempted to steal from those who had much that
 
 232 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 she might give to those who had nothing, and car- 
 ried in her conscience the guilt of that repressed 
 desire. One must be poor to know the luxury of 
 giving ! 
 
 Mrs. Farebrother welcomed the guest with a 
 lively formality and precision. She presently 
 informed him that they were not often in want of 
 medical aid in that house. She had brought up 
 her children to wear flannel and not to over-eat 
 themselves, which last habit she considered the 
 chief reason why people needed doctors. Lydgate 
 pleaded for those whose fathers and mothers had 
 over-eaten themselves, but Mrs. Farebrother held 
 that view of things dangerous : Nature was more 
 just than that ; it would be easy for any felon to 
 say that his ancestors ought to have been hanged 
 instead of him. If those who had bad fathers and 
 mothers were bad themselves, they were hanged 
 for that. There was no need to go back on what 
 you could n't see. 
 
 " My mother is like old George the Third, " said 
 the Vicar ; " she objects to metaphysics. " 
 
 " I object to what is wrong, Camden. I say, 
 keep hold of a few plain truths, and make every- 
 thing square with them. When I was young, Mr. 
 Lydgate, there never was any question about right 
 and wrong. We knew our catechism, and that 
 was enough ; we learned our creed and our duty. 
 Every respectable Church person had the same 
 opinions. But now, if you speak out of the 
 Prayer-book itself, you are liable to be con- 
 tradicted. " 
 
 " That makes rather a pleasant time of it for 
 those who like to maintain their own point, " said 
 Lydgate.
 
 OLD AND YOUNG. 233 
 
 " But my mother always gives way, " said the 
 Vicar, slyly. 
 
 " No, no, Camden, you must not lead Mr. Lyd- 
 gate into a mistake about me. I shall never show 
 that disrespect to my parents, to give up what 
 they taught me. Any one may see what comes of 
 turning. If you change once, why not twenty 
 times ? " 
 
 " A man might see good arguments for changing 
 once, and not see them for changing again, " said 
 Lydgate, amused with the decisive old lady. 
 
 " Excuse me there. If you go upon arguments, 
 they are never wanting, when a man has no con- 
 stancy of mind. My father never changed, and he 
 preached plain moral sermons without arguments, 
 and was a good man, — few better. When you get 
 me a good man made out of arguments, I will get 
 you a good dinner with reading you the cookery- 
 book. That 's my opinion, and I think anybody's 
 stomach will bear me out. " 
 
 " About the dinner certainly, mother, " said Mr. 
 Farebrother. 
 
 " It is the same thing, the dinner or the man. 
 I am nearly seventy, Mr. Lydgate, and I go upon 
 experience. I am not likely to follow new lights, 
 though there are plenty of them here as elsewhere. 
 I say, they came in with the mixed stuffs that will 
 neither wash nor wear. It was not so in my youth : 
 a Churchman was a Churchman, and a clergyman, 
 you might be pretty sure, was a gentleman, if 
 nothing else. But now he may be no better than a 
 Dissenter, and want to push aside my son on pre- 
 tence of doctrine. But whoever may wish to push 
 him aside, I am proud to say, Mr. Lydgate, that he 
 will compare with any preacher in this kingdom,
 
 ^34 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 not to speak of this town, which is but a low 
 standard to go by ; at least, to my thinking, for I 
 was born and bred at Exeter. " 
 
 " A mother is never partial, " said Mr. Fare- 
 brother, smiling. " What do you think Tyke's 
 mother says about him ? " 
 
 " Ah, poor creature I what indeed ? " said Mrs. 
 Farebrother, her sharpness blunted for the moment 
 by her confidence in maternal judgments. " She 
 says the truth to herself, depend upon it. " 
 
 " And what is the truth ? " said Lydgate. " I am 
 curious to know. " 
 
 " Oh, nothing bad at all, " said Mr. Farebrother. 
 " He is a zealous fellow : not very learned, and 
 not very wise, I think, — because I don't agree 
 with him. " 
 
 " Why, Camden 1 " said Miss Winifred, " Griffin 
 and his wife told me only to-day, that Mr. Tyke 
 said they should have no more coals if they came 
 to hear you preach. " 
 
 Mrs. Farebrother laid down her knitting, which 
 she had resumed after her small allowance of tea 
 and toast, and looked at her son as if to say, " You 
 hear that ? " Miss Noble said, "'' Oh, poor things ! 
 poor things ! " in reference, probably, to the double 
 loss of preaching and coal. But the Vicar an- 
 swered quietly, — 
 
 " That is because they are not my parishioners. 
 And I don't think my sermons are worth a load 
 of coals to them. " 
 
 " Mr. Lydgate, " said Mrs. Farebrother, who 
 could not let this pass, *' you don't know my son: 
 he always undervalues himself. I tell him he is 
 undervaluing the God wlio made him, and made 
 him a most excellent preach wr. "
 
 OLD AND YOUNG. 235 
 
 " That must be a hint for me to take Mr. Lydgate 
 away to my study, mother, " said the Vicar, laugh- 
 ing. " I promised to show you my collection, " he 
 added, turning to Lydgate ; " shall we go ? " 
 
 All three ladies remonstrated. Mr. Lydgate 
 ought not to be hurried away without being allowed 
 to accept another cup of tea : Miss Winifred had 
 abundance of good tea in the pot. Why was Cam- 
 den in such haste to take a visitor to his den ? 
 There was nothing but pickled vermin, and drawers 
 full of blue-bottles and moths, with no carpet on 
 the floor. Mr. Lydgate must excuse it. A game 
 at cribbage would be far better. Li short, it was 
 plain that a vicar might be adored by his woman- 
 kind as the king of men and preachers, and yet be 
 held by them to stand in much need of their direc- 
 tion. Lydgate, with the usual shallowness of a 
 young bachelor, wondered that Mr. Farebrother 
 had not taught them better. 
 
 " My mother is not used to my having visitors 
 who can take any interest in my hobbies, " said the 
 Vicar, as he opened the door of his study, which 
 was indeed as bare of luxuries for the body as the 
 ladies had implied, unless a short porcelain pipe 
 and a tobacco-box were to be excepted. 
 
 " Men of your profession don't generally smoke," 
 he said. Lydgate smiled and shook his head. 
 " Nor of mine either, properly, I suppose. You 
 will hear that pipe alleged against me by Bulstrode 
 and Company. They don't know how pleased the 
 devil would be if I gave it up. " 
 
 " I understand. You are of an excitable temper 
 and want a sedative. I am heavier, and should 
 get idle with it. I should rush into idleness, and 
 stagnate there with all my might. "
 
 236 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 " And you mean to give it all to your work. I 
 am some ten or twelve years older than you, and 
 have come to a compromise. I feed a weakness or 
 two lest they should get clamorous. See, " con- 
 tinued the Vicar, opening several small drawers, 
 " I fancy I have made an exhaustive study of the 
 entomology of this district. I am going on both 
 with the fauna and flora ; but I have at least done 
 my insects well. We are singularly rich in 
 orthoptera : I don't know whether — Ah! you 
 have got hold of that glass jar, — you are looking 
 into that instead of my drawers. You don't really 
 care about these things ? " 
 
 " Not by the side of this lovely anencephalous 
 monster. I have never had time to give myself 
 much to natural history. I was early bitten with 
 an interest in structure, and it is what lies most 
 directly in my profession. I have no hobby 
 besides. I have the sea to swim in there. " 
 
 " Ah ! you are a happy fellow, " said Mr. Fare- 
 brother, turning on his heel and beginning to fill 
 his pipe. " You don't know what it is to want 
 spiritual tobacco, — bad emendations of old texts, 
 or small items about a variety of Aphis Brassicce, 
 with the well-known signature of Philomicron, 
 for the ' Twaddler's Magazine ; ' or a learned trea- 
 tise on the entomology of the Pentateuch, includ- 
 ing all the insects not mentioned, but probably 
 met with by the Israelites in their passage through 
 the desert ; with a monograph on the Ant, as 
 treated by Solomon, showing the harmony of the 
 Book of Proverbs with the results of modern 
 research. You don't mind my fumigating you ? " 
 
 Lydgate was more surprised at the openness of 
 this talk than at its implied meaning, — that the
 
 OLD AND YOUNG. 237 
 
 Vicar felt himself not altogether in the right voca- 
 tion. The neat fitting-up of drawers and shelves, 
 and the bookcase filled with expensive illustrated 
 books on Natural History, made him think again 
 of the winnings at cards and their destination. But 
 he was beginning to wish that the very best con- 
 struction of everything that Mr. Farebrother did 
 should be the true one. The Vicar's frankness 
 seemed not of the repulsive sort that comes from 
 an uneasy consciousness seeking to forestall the 
 judgment of others, but simply the relief of a 
 desire to do with as little pretence as possible. 
 Apparently he was not without a sense that his 
 freedom of speech might seem premature, for he 
 presently said, — 
 
 " I have not yet told you that I have the advan- 
 tage of you, Mr. Lydgate, and know you better 
 than you know me. You remember Trawley, who 
 shared your apartment at Paris for some time ? 
 I was a correspondent of his, and he told me a 
 good deal about you. I was not quite sure when 
 you first came that you were the same man. I 
 was very glad when I found that you were. Only 
 I don't forget that yoa have not had the like pro- 
 logue about me. " 
 
 Lydgate divined some delicacy of feeling here, 
 but did not half understand it. " By the way," he 
 said, " what has become of Trawley ? I have quite 
 lost sight of him. He was hot on the French 
 social systems, and talked of going to the Back- 
 woods to found a sort of Pythagorean community. 
 Is he gone ? " 
 
 " Not at all. He is practising at a German bath, 
 and has married a rich patient. " 
 
 " Then my notions wear the best, so far, " said
 
 238 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 Lydgate, with a short scornful laugh. " He would 
 have it, the medical profession was an inevitable 
 system of humbug. I said, the fault was in the 
 men, — men who truckle to lies and folly. Instead 
 of preaching against humbug outside the walls, it 
 might be better to set up a disinfecting apparatus 
 within. In short, — I am reporting my own con- 
 versation, — you may be sure I had all the good 
 sense on my side. " 
 
 " Your scheme is a good deal more difficult to 
 carry out than the Pythagorean community, 
 though. You have not only got the old Adam 
 in yourself against you, but you have got all those 
 descendants of the original Adam who form the 
 society around you. You see, I have paid twelve 
 or thirteen years more than you for my knowledge 
 of difficulties. But " — Mr. Farebrother broke off 
 a moment, and then added, " you are eying that 
 glass vase again. Do you want to make an ex- 
 change ? You shall not have it without a fair 
 barter. " 
 
 "I have some sea-mice, — fine specimens, — in 
 spirits. And I will throw in Robert Brown 's new 
 thing, — ' Microscopic Observations on the Pollen 
 of Plants,' — if you don't happen to have it 
 already. " 
 
 " Why, seeing how you long for the monster, I 
 might ask a higher price. Suppose I ask you to 
 look through my drawers and agree with me about 
 all my new species ?" The Vicar, while he talked 
 in this way, alternately moved about with his pipe 
 in his mouth, and returned to hang rather fondly 
 over his drawers. " That would be good disci- 
 pline, you know, for a young doctor who has to 
 please his patients in Middlemarch. You must
 
 OLD AND YOUNG. 239 
 
 learn to be bored, remember. However, you shall 
 have the monster on your own terms. " 
 
 " Don't you think men overrate the necessity for 
 humouring everybody's nonsense, till they get 
 despised by the very fools they humour ? " said 
 Lydgate, moving to Mr. Farebrother's side, and 
 looking rather absently at the insects ranged in 
 fine gradation, with names subscribed in exquisite 
 writing. " The shortest way is to make your value 
 felt, so that people must put up with you whether 
 you flatter them or not. " 
 
 " With all my heart. But then you must be sure 
 of having the value, and you must keep yourself 
 independent. Very few men can do that. Either 
 you slip out of service altogether, and become good 
 for nothing, or you wear the harness and draw a 
 good deal where your yoke-fellows pull you. But 
 do look at these delicate orthoptera ! " 
 
 Lydgate had after all to give some scrutiny to 
 each drawer, the Vicar laughing at himself, and 
 yet persisting in the exhibition. 
 
 " Apropos of what you said about wearing har- 
 ness, " Lydgate began, after they had sat down, " I 
 made up my mind some time ago to do with as 
 little of it as possible. That was why I deter- 
 mined not to try anything in London, for a good 
 many years at least. I didn't like what I saw 
 when I was studying there, — so much empty big- 
 wiggism and obstructive trickery. In the coun- 
 try people have less pretension to knowledge, 
 and are less of companions, but for that reason 
 they affect one's amour-propre less : one makes less 
 bad blood, and can follow one's own course more 
 quietly. " 
 
 " Yes, — well, — you have got a good start; you
 
 240 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 are in the right profession, the work you feel your- 
 self most fit for. Some people miss that, and 
 repent too late. But you must not be too sure of 
 keeping your independence. " 
 
 " You mean of family ties ? " said Lydgate, con- 
 ceiving that these might press rather tightly on 
 Mr. Farebrother. 
 
 " Not altogether. Of course they make many 
 things more difficult. But a good wife — a good 
 unworldly woman — may really help a man, and 
 keep him more independent. There 's a parishioner 
 of mine, — a fine fellow, but who would hardly 
 have pulled through as he has done without his 
 wife. Do you know the Garths 1 I think they 
 were not Peacock's patients." 
 
 " No ; but there is a Miss Garth at old Feather- 
 stone's, at Lowick. " 
 
 " Their daughter : an excellent girl. " 
 
 " She is very quiet, — I have hardly noticed her. " 
 
 " She has taken notice of you, though, depend 
 upon it. " 
 
 "I don't understand," said Lydgate; he could 
 hardly say, " Of course. " 
 
 " Oh, she gauges everybody. I prepared her for 
 confirmation, — she is a favourite of mine. " 
 
 Mr. Farebrother puffed a few moments in silence, 
 Lydgate not caring to know more about the Garths. 
 At last the Vicar laid down his pipe, stretched 
 out his legs, and turned his bright eyes with a 
 smile towards Lydgate, saying, — 
 
 " But we Middlemarchers are not so tame as you 
 take us to be. We have our intrigues and our 
 parties. I am a party man, for example, and Bui- 
 strode is another. If you vote for me you will 
 offend Bulstrode. "
 
 OLD AND YOUNG. 241 
 
 " What is there against Bulstrode ? " said Lyd- 
 gate, emphatically. 
 
 " I did not say there was anything against him 
 except that. If you vote against him you will 
 make him your enemy. " 
 
 " I don't know that I need mind about that, " said 
 Lydgate, rather proudly ; " but he seems to have 
 good ideas about hospitals, and he spends large 
 sums on useful public objects. He might help me 
 a good deal in carrying out my ideas. As to his 
 religious notions, — why, as Voltaire said, incanta- 
 tions will destroy a flock of sheep if administered 
 with a certain quantity of arsenic. I look for the 
 man who will bring the arsenic, and don't mind 
 about his incantations. " 
 
 " Very good. But then you must not offend 
 your arsenic-man. You will not offend me, you 
 know, " said Mr. Farebrother, quite unaffectedly. 
 " I don't translate my own convenience into other 
 people's duties. I am opposed to Bulstrode in 
 many ways. I don't like the set he belongs to: 
 they are a narrow ignorant set, and do more to 
 make their neighbours uncomfortable than to make 
 them better. Their system is a sort of worldly- 
 spiritual cliquism : they really look on the rest of 
 mankind as a doomed carcass which is to nourish 
 them for heaven. But, " he added smilingly, " I 
 don't say that Bulstrode's new hospital is a bad 
 thing ; and as to his wanting to oust me from the 
 old one, — why, if he thinks me a mischievous 
 fellow, he is only returning a compliment. And 
 I am not a model clergyman, — only a decent 
 makeshift. " 
 
 Lydgate was not at all sure that the Vicar 
 maligned himself. A model clergyman, like a 
 
 VOL. I. — 16
 
 242 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 model doctor, ought to think his own profession 
 the finest in the world, and take all knowledge as 
 mere nourishment to his moral pathology and 
 therapeutics. He only said, " What reason does 
 Bulstrode give for superseding you ? " 
 
 "That I don't teach his opinions, — which he 
 calls spiritual religion : and that I have no time to 
 spare. Both statements are true. But then I 
 could make time, and I should be glad of the forty 
 pounds. That is the plain fact of the case. But 
 let us dismiss it. I only wanted to tell you that 
 if you vote for your arsenic-man, you are not to 
 cut me in consequence. I can't spare you. You 
 are a sort of circumnavigator come to settle among 
 us, and will keep up my belief in the antipodes. 
 Now tell me all about them in Paris. "
 
 CHAPTEK XVIIL 
 
 " Oh, sir, the loftiest hopes on earth 
 Draw lots with meaner hopes : heroic hreasts, 
 Breathing bad air, run risk of pestilence ; 
 Or, lacking lime-juice when they cross the Line, 
 May languish with the scurvy." 
 
 Some weeks passed after this conversation before 
 the question of the chaplaincy gathered any practi- 
 cal import for Lydgate, and without telling him^ 
 self the reason, he deferred the predetermination 
 on which side he should give his vote. It would 
 really have been a matter of total indifference to 
 him, — that is to say, he would have taken the 
 more convenient side, and given his vote for the 
 appointment of Tyke without any hesitation, — if 
 he had not cared personally for Mr. Farebrother. 
 
 But his liking for the Vicar of St. Botolph's 
 grew with growing acquaintanceship. That, 
 entering into Lydgate's position as a new-comer 
 who had his own professional objects to secure, 
 Mr. Farebrother should have taken pains rather to 
 warn off than to obtain his interest, showed an 
 unusual delicacy and generosity, which Lydgate's 
 nature was keenly alive to. It went along with 
 other points of conduct in Mr. Farebrother which 
 were exceptionally fine, and made his character 
 resemble those southern landscapes which seem 
 divided between natural grandeur and social 
 slovenliness. Very few men could have been as 
 filial and chivalrous as he was to the mother, aunt,
 
 244 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 and sister, whose dependence on him had in many 
 ways shaped his life rather uneasily for himself; 
 few men who feel the pressure of small needs are 
 so nobly resolute not to dress up their inevitably 
 self-interested desires in a pretext of better motives. 
 In these matters he was conscious that his life 
 would bear the closest scrutiny ; and perhaps the 
 consciousness encouraged a little defiance towards 
 the critical strictness of persons whose celestial 
 intimacies seemed not to improve their domestic 
 manners, and whose lofty aims were not needed to 
 account for their actions. Then, his preaching 
 was ingenious and pithy, like the preaching of 
 the English Church in its robust age, and his 
 sermons were delivered without book. People 
 outside his parish went to hear him ; and, since to 
 fill the church was always the most difficult part 
 of a clergyman's function, here was another 
 ground for a careless sense of superiority. Besides, 
 he was a likable man : sweet-tempered, ready- 
 witted, frank, without grins of suppressed bitter- 
 ness or other conversational flavours which make 
 half of us an affliction to our friends. Lydgate 
 liked him heartily, and wished for his friendship. 
 
 With this feeling uppermost, he continued to 
 waive the question of the chaplaincy, and to per- 
 suade himself that it was not only no proper busi- 
 ness of his, but likely enough never to vex him 
 with a demand for his vote. Lydgate, at Mr. Bul- 
 strode's request, was laying down plans for the 
 internal arrangements of the new hospital, and the 
 two were often in consultation. The banker was 
 always presupposing that he could count in general 
 on Lydgate as a coadjutor, but made no special re- 
 currence to the coming decision between Tyke and
 
 OLD AND YOUNG. 245 
 
 Farebrother. When the General Board of the In- 
 firmary had met, however, and Lydgate had notice 
 that the question of the chaplaincy was thrown on 
 a council of the directors and medical men, to meet 
 on the following Friday, he had a vexed sense that 
 he must make up his mind on this trivial Middle- 
 march business. He could not help hearing within 
 him the distinct declaration that Bulstrode was 
 prime minister, and that the Tyke affair was a ques- 
 tion of office or no office ; and he could not help an 
 equally pronounced dislike to giving up the prospect 
 of office. For his observation was constantly con- 
 firming Mr. Farebrother's assurance that the banker 
 would not overlook opposition. " Confound their 
 petty politics ! " was one of his thoughts for three 
 mornings in the meditative process of shaving, when 
 he had begun to feel that he must really hold a 
 court of conscience on this matter. Certainly there 
 were valid things to be said against the election of 
 Mr. Farebrother: he had too much on his hands 
 already, especially considering how much time he 
 spent on non-clerical occupations. Then again it 
 was a continually repeated shock, disturbing Lyd- 
 gate's esteem, that the Vicar should obviously play 
 for the sake of money, liking the play indeed, but 
 evidently liking some end which it served. Mr. 
 Farebrother contended on theory for the desirabil- 
 ity of all games, and said that Englishmen's wit was 
 stagnant for want of them ; but Lydgate felt cer- 
 tain that he would have played very much less but 
 for the money. There was a billiard-room at the 
 Green Dragon, which some anxious mothers and 
 wives regarded as the chief temptation in Middle- 
 march. The Vicar was a first-rate billiard-player, 
 and though he did not frequent the Green Dragon,
 
 246 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 there were reports that he had sometimes been there 
 in the daytime and had won money. And as to the 
 chaplaincy, he did not pretend that he cared for it, 
 except for the sake of the forty pounds. Lydgate 
 was no Puritan, but he did not care for play, and 
 winning money at it had always seemed a meanness 
 to him ; besides, he had an ideal of life which made 
 this subservience of conduct to the gaining of small 
 sums thoroughly hateful to him. Hitherto in his 
 own life his wants had been supplied without any 
 trouble to himself, and his first impulse was always 
 to be liberal with half-crowns as matters of no im- 
 portance to a gentleman ; it had never occurred to 
 him to devise a plan for getting half-crowns. He 
 had always known in a general way that he was 
 not rich, but he had never felt poor, and he had no 
 power of imagining the part which the want of 
 money plays in determining the actions of men. 
 Money had never been a motive to him, Hence he 
 was not ready to frame excuses for this deliberate 
 pursuit of small gains. It was altogether repulsive 
 to him, and he never entered into any calculation of 
 the ratio between the Vicar's income and his more 
 or less necessary expenditure. It was possible that 
 he would not have made such a calculation in his 
 own case. 
 
 And now, when the question of voting had come, 
 this repulsive fact told more strongly against Mr. 
 Farebrother than it had done before. One would 
 know much better what to do if men's characters 
 were more consistent, and especially if one's friends 
 were invariably fit for any function they desired to 
 undertake ! Lydgate was convinced that if there 
 had been no valid objection to Mr. Farebrother, he 
 Vk^ould have voted for him, whatever Bulstrode might
 
 OLD AND YOUNG. i47 
 
 have felt on the subject : he did not intend to be a 
 vassal of Bulstrode's. On the other hand, there was 
 Tyke, a man entirely given to his clerical office, who 
 was simply curate at a chapel of ease in St. Peter's 
 parish, and had time for extra duty. Nobody 
 had anything to say against Mr. Tyke, except that 
 they could not bear him, and suspected him of 
 cant. Eeally from his point of view, Bulstrode 
 was thoroughly justified. 
 
 But whichever way Lydgate began to incline, 
 there was something to make him wince ; and being 
 a proud man, he was a little exasperated at being 
 obliged to wince. He did not like frustrating his 
 own best purposes by getting on bad terms with 
 Bulstrode; he did not like voting against Fare- 
 brother, and helping to deprive him of function and 
 salary ; and the question occurred whether the ad- 
 ditional forty pounds might not leave the Vicar free 
 from that ignoble care about winning at cards. 
 JMoreover, Lydgate did not like the consciousness 
 that in voting for Tyke he should be voting on the 
 side obviously convenient for himself. But would 
 the end really be his own convenience ? Other 
 people would say so, and would allege that he was 
 currying favour with Bulstrode for the sake of mak- 
 ing himself important and getting on in the world. 
 What then ? He for his own part knew that if his 
 personal prospects simply had been concerned, he 
 would not have cared a rotten nut for the banker's 
 friendship or enmity. "What he really cared for was 
 a medium for his work, a vehicle for his ideas ; and 
 after all, was he not bound to prefer the object 
 of getting a good hospital, where he could demon- 
 strate the specific distinctions of fever and test the- 
 rapeutic results, before anything else connected with
 
 248 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 this chaplaincy ? For the first time Lydgate was 
 feeling the hampering threadlike pressure of small 
 social conditions, and their frustrating complexity. 
 At the end of his inward debate, when he set out 
 for the hospital, his hope was really in the chance 
 that discussion might somehow give a new aspect 
 to the question, and make the scale dip so as to ex- 
 clude the necessity for voting. I think he trusted a 
 little also to the energy which is begotten by cir- 
 cumstances, — some feeling rushing warmly and 
 making resolve easy, while debate in cool blood had 
 only made it more difficult. However it was, he 
 did not distinctly say to himself on which side he 
 would vote ; and all the while he was inwardly 
 resenting the subjection which had been forced 
 upon him. It would have seemed beforehand like 
 a ridiculous piece of bad logic that he, with his un- 
 mixed resolutions of independence and his select 
 purposes would find himself at the very outset in 
 the grasp of petty alternatives, each of which was 
 repugnant to him. In his student's chambers he 
 had prearranged his social action quite differently. 
 
 Lydgate was late in setting out, but Dr. Sprague, 
 the two other surgeons, and several of the directors 
 had arrived early ; Mr. Bulstrode, treasurer and 
 chairman, being among those who were still absent. 
 The conversation seemed to imply that the issue 
 was problematical, and that a majority for Tyke 
 was not so certain as had been generally supposed. 
 The two physicians, for a wonder, turned out to be 
 unanimous, or rather, though of different minds, they 
 concurred in action. Dr. Sprague, the rugged and 
 weighty, was, as every one had foreseen, an adher- 
 ent of Mr. Farebrother. The Doctor was more 
 than suspected of having no religion, but somehow
 
 OLD AND YOUNG. 249 
 
 Middlemarch tolerated this deficiency in him as if 
 he had been a Lord Chancellor ; indeed it is prob- 
 able that his professional weight was the more be- 
 lieved in, the world-old association of cleverness 
 with the evil principle being still potent in the 
 minds even of lady-patients who had the strictest 
 ideas of frilling and sentiment. It was perhaps 
 this negation in the Doctor which made his neigh- 
 bours call him hard-headed and dry-witted ; condi- 
 tions of texture which were also held favourable to 
 the storing of judgments connected with drugs. At 
 all events, it is certain that if any medical man had 
 come to Middlemarch with the reputation of having 
 very definite religious views, of being given to 
 prayer, and of otherwise showing an active piety, 
 there would have been a general presumption 
 against his medical skill. 
 
 On this ground it was (professionally speaking) 
 fortunate for Dr. Minchin that his religious sym- 
 pathies were of a general kind, and such as gave a 
 distant medical sanction to all serious sentiment, 
 whether of .Church or Dissent, rather than any ad- 
 hesion to particular tenets. If Mr. Bulstrode in- 
 sisted, as he was apt to do, on the Lutheran doctrine 
 of justification, as that by which a Church must 
 stand or fall. Dr. Minchin in return was quite sure 
 that man was not a mere machine or a fortuitous 
 conjunction of atoms ; if Mrs. Wimple insisted on 
 a particular providence in relation to her stomach 
 complaint. Dr. Minchin for his part liked to keep 
 the mental windows open, and objected to fixed 
 limits ; if the Unitarian brewer jested about the 
 Athanasian Creed, Dr. Minchin quoted Pope's " Essay 
 on Man." He objected to the rather free style of 
 anecdote in which Dr. SpT-p-.m'^ indulged, preferring
 
 250 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 well-sanctioned quotations, and liking refinement of 
 all kinds : it was generally known that he had some 
 kinship to a bishop, and sometimes spent his holi- 
 days at "the palace." 
 
 Dr. Minchin was soft-handed, pale-complexioned, 
 and of rounded outline, not to be distinguished 
 from a mild clergyman in appearance : whereas Dr. 
 Sprague was superfluously tall ; his trousers got 
 creased at the knees, and showed an excess of boot 
 at a time when straps seemed necessary to any dig- 
 nity of bearing ; you heard him go in and out, and 
 up and down, as if he had come to see after the 
 roofing. In short, he had weight, and might be ex- 
 pected to grapple with a disease and throw it ; while 
 Dr. Minchin might be better able to detect it lurk- 
 ing and to circumvent it. They enjoyed about 
 equally the mysterious privilege of medical reputa- 
 tion, and concealed with much etiquette their con- 
 tempt for each other's skill. Eegarding themselves 
 as Middlemarch institutions, they were ready to 
 combine against all innovators, and against non-pro- 
 fessionals given to interference. On this ground 
 they were both in their hearts equally averse to Mr. 
 Bulstrode, though Dr. Minchin had never been in 
 open hostility with him, and never differed from 
 him without elaborate explanation to Mrs. Bulstrode, 
 who had found that Dr. Minchin alone understood 
 her constitution. A layman who pried into the 
 professional conduct of medical men, and was 
 always obtruding his reforms, though he was less 
 directly embarrassing to the two physicians than to 
 the surgeon apothecaries who attended paupers by 
 contract, was nevertheless offensive to the profes- 
 sional nostril as such ; and Dr. Minchin shared 
 fully in the new pique against Bulstrode, excited
 
 OLD AND YOUNG. 251 
 
 by his apparent determination to patronize Lydgate. 
 The long-established practitioners, Mr. Wrench and 
 Mr. Toller, were just now standing apart and hav- 
 ing a friendly colloquy, in which they agreed that 
 Lydgate was a jackanapes, just made to serve Bul- 
 strode's purpose. To non-medical friends they had 
 already concurred in praising the other young practi- 
 tioner, who had come into the town on Mr. Peacock's 
 retirement without further recommendation than his 
 own merits and such argument for solid professional 
 acquirement as might be gathered from his having 
 apparently wasted no time on other branches of 
 knowledge. It was clear that Lydgate, by not dis- 
 pensing drugs, intended to cast imputations on his 
 equals, and also to obscure the limit between his 
 own rank as a general practitioner and that of the 
 physicians, who, in the interest of the profession, 
 felt bound to maintain its various grades, — espe- 
 cially against a man who had not been to either of 
 the English universities and enjoyed the absence of 
 anatomical and bedside study there, but came with a 
 libellous pretension to experience in Edinburgh and 
 Paris, where observation might be abundant indeed, 
 but hardly sound. 
 
 Thus it happened that on this occasion Bulstrode 
 became identified with Lydgate, and Lydgate with 
 Tyke ; and owing to this variety of interchangeable 
 names for the chaplaincy question, diverse minds 
 were enabled to form the same judgment concern- 
 ing it. 
 
 Dr. Sprague said at once bluntly to the group 
 assembled when he entered : " I go for Earebrother. 
 A salary, with all my heart. But why take it from 
 the Vicar ? He has none too much, — has to insure 
 his life, besides keeping house, and doing a vicar's
 
 252 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 charities. Put forty pounds in his pocket and you '11 
 do no harm. He 's a good fellow, is Farebrother, 
 with as little of the parson about him as will serve 
 to carry orders." 
 
 " Ho, ho ! Doctor," said old Mr. Powderell, a 
 retired ironmonger of some standing, — his interjec- 
 tion being something between a laugh and a Parlia- 
 mentary disapproval ; " we must let you have your 
 say. But what we have to consider is not anybody's 
 income, — it's the souls of the poor sick people." 
 Here Mr. Powderell's voice and face had a sincere 
 pathos in them. " He is a real Gospel preacher, is 
 Mr. Tyke, I should vote against my conscience if I 
 voted against Mr. Tyke, — I should indeed." 
 
 "Mr. Tyke's opponents have not asked any one 
 to vote against his conscience, I believe," said Mr. 
 Hackbutt, a rich tanner of fluent speech, whose 
 glittering spectacles and erect hair were turned with 
 some severity towards innocent Mr. Powderell. 
 " But in my judgment it behoves us, as Directors, 
 to consider whether we will regard it as our whole 
 business to carry out propositions emanating from a 
 single quarter. Will any member of the committee 
 aver that he would have entertained the idea of dis- 
 placing the gentleman who has always discharged 
 the function of chaplain here, if it had not been sug- 
 gested to him by parties whose disposition it is to 
 regard every institution of this town as a machinery 
 for carrying out their own views ? I tax no man's 
 motives : let them lie between himself and a higher 
 Power; bub I do say that there are influences at 
 work here which are incompatible with genuine 
 independence, and that a crawling servility is usu- 
 ally dictated by circumstances which gentlemen so 
 conducting themselves could not afford either
 
 OLD AND YOUNG. 253 
 
 morally or financially to avow. I myself am a lay- 
 man, but I have given no inconsiderable attention to 
 the divisions in the Church and — " 
 
 " Oh, damn the divisions ! " burst in Mr. Frank 
 Hawley, lawyer and town-clerk, who rarely presented 
 himself at the board, but now looked in hurriedly, 
 whip in hand. " We have nothing to do with them 
 here. Farebrother has been doing the work — 
 what there was — without pay ; and if pay is to be 
 given, it should be given to him. I call it a 
 confounded job to take the thing away from 
 Farebrother." 
 
 " I think it would be as well for gentlemen not to 
 give their remarks a personal bearing," said Mr. 
 Plymdale. " I shall vote for the appointment of 
 Mr. Tyke, but I should not have known, if Mr. 
 Hackbutt hadn't hinted it, that I was a Servile 
 Crawler." 
 
 " I disclaim any personalities. I expressly said if 
 I may be allowed to repeat, or even to conclude 
 what I was about to say — " 
 
 " Ah, here 's Minchin ! " said Mr. Frank Hawley ; 
 at which everybody turned away from Mr. Hackbutt, 
 leaving him to feel the uselessness of superior gifts 
 in Middlemarch. " Come, Doctor, I must have you 
 on the right side, eh ? " 
 
 " I hope so," said Dr. Minchin, nodding and shak- 
 ing hands here and there ; " at whatever cost to my 
 feelings." 
 
 " If there 's any feeling here, it should be feeling 
 for the man who is turned out, I think," said Mr. 
 Frank Hawley. 
 
 " I confess I have feelings on the other side also. 
 I have a divided esteem," said Dr. Minchin, rubbing 
 his hands. " I consider Mr. Tyke an exemplary
 
 254 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 man, — none more so, — and I believe him to be 
 proposed from unimpeachable motives. I, for my 
 part, wish that I could give him my vote. But I 
 am constrained to take a view of the case which 
 gives the preponderance to Mr. Farebrother's claims. 
 He is an amiable man, an able preacher, and has 
 been longer among us." 
 
 Old Mr. Powderell looked on, sad and silent. 
 Mr. Plymdale settled his cravat uneasily. 
 
 " You don't set up Farebrother as a pattern of 
 what a clergyman ought to be, I hope," said Mr. 
 Larcher, the eminent carrier, who had just come in. 
 " I have no ill-will towards him, but I think we owe 
 something to the public, not to speak of anything 
 higher, in these appointments. In my opinion Fare- 
 brother is too lax for a clergyman. I don't wish to 
 bring up particulars against him ; but he will make 
 a little attendance here go as far as he can." 
 
 " And a devilish deal better than too much," said 
 Mr. Hawley, whose bad language was notorious in 
 that part of the county. " Sick people can't bear 
 so much praying and preaching. And that meth- 
 odistical sort of religion is bad for the spirits, — bad 
 for the inside, eh ? " he added, turning quickly round 
 to the four medical men who were assembled. 
 
 But any answer was dispensed with by the 
 entrance of three gentlemen, with whom there were 
 greetings more or less cordial. These were the 
 Eeverend Edward Thesiger, Eector of St. Peter's, 
 Mr. Bulstrode, and our friend Mr. Brooke of Tipton, 
 who had lately allowed himself to be put on the 
 board of directors in his turn, but had never before 
 attended, his attendance now being due to Mr. Bul- 
 strode' s exertions. Lydgate was the only person 
 still expected.
 
 OLD AND lOUNG. 255 
 
 Every one now sat down, Mr. Bulstrode presiding, 
 pale and self-restrained as usual. Mr. Thesiger, a 
 moderate evangelical, wished for the appointment of 
 his friend Mr. Tyke, a zealous able man, who, officiat- 
 ing at a chapel of ease, had not a cure of souls too 
 extensive to leave him ample time for the new duty. 
 It was desirable that chaplaincies of this kind should 
 be entered on with a fervent intention : they were 
 peculiar opportunities for spiritual influence ; and 
 while it was good that a salary should be allotted, 
 there was the more need for scrupulous watching 
 lest the office should be perverted into a mere ques- 
 tion of salary. Mr. Thesiger's manner had so much 
 quiet propriety that objectors could only simmer in 
 silence. 
 
 Mr. Brooke believed that everybody meant well 
 in the matter. He had not himself attended to the 
 affairs of the Infirmary, though he had a strong 
 interest in whatever was for the benefit of Middle- 
 march, and was most happy to meet the gentlemen 
 present on any public question, — " any public ques- 
 tion, you know," Mr. Brooke repeated, with his nod 
 of perfect understanding. " I am a good deal occu- 
 pied as a magistrate, and in the collection of docu- 
 mentary evidence, but I regard my time as being at 
 the disposal of the public — and, in short, my 
 friends have convinced me that a chaplain with a 
 salary — a salary, you know — is a very good thing, 
 and I am happy to be able to come here and vote 
 for the appointment of Mr. Tyke, who, I understand, 
 is an unexceptionable man, apostolic and eloquent 
 and everything of that kind — and I am the last 
 man to withhold my vote — under the circumstances, 
 you know." 
 
 " It seems to me that you have been crammed
 
 256 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 with one side of the question, Mr. Brooke," said Mr. 
 Frank Hawley, who was afraid of nobody, and was 
 a Tory suspicious of electioneering intentions. " You 
 don't seem to know that one of the worthiest men 
 we have has been doing duty as chaplain here for 
 years without pay, and that Mr. Tyke is proposed 
 to supersede him." 
 
 " Excuse me, Mr. Hawley," said Mr. Bulstrode. 
 " Mr. Brooke has been fully informed of Mr. Fare- 
 brother's character and position." 
 
 " By his enemies," flashed out Mr. Hawley. 
 
 " I trust there is no personal hostility concerned 
 here," said Mr. Thesiger. 
 
 " I '11 swear there is, though," retorted Mr. 
 Hawley. 
 
 "Gentlemen," said Mr. Bulstrode, in a subdued 
 tone, " the merits of the question may be very briefly 
 stated, and if any one present doubts that every 
 gentleman who is about to give his vote has not 
 been fully informed, I can now recapitulate the 
 considerations that should weigh on either side." 
 
 " I don't see the good of that," said Mr. Hawley. 
 " I suppose we all know whom we mean to vote for. 
 Any man who wants to do justice does not wait till 
 the last minute to hear both sides of the question. 
 I have no time to lose, and I propose that the matter 
 be put to the vote at once." 
 
 A brief but still hot discussion followed before 
 each person wrote " Tyke " or " Farebrother " on a 
 piece of paper, and slipped it into a glass tumbler ; 
 and in the mean time Mr. Bulstrode saw Lydgate 
 enter. 
 
 " I perceive that the votes are equally divided at 
 present," said Mr. Bulstrode, in a clear biting voice. 
 Then, looking up at Lydgate, —
 
 OLD AND YOUNG. 257 
 
 " There is a casting-vote still to be given. It is 
 yours, Mr. Lydgate : will you be good enough to 
 write ? " 
 
 " The thing is settled now," said Mr. Wrench, ris 
 ing. " We all know how Mr. Lydgate will vote." 
 
 " You seem to speak with some peculiar meaning, 
 sir," said Lydgate, rather defiantly, and keeping his 
 pencil suspended. 
 
 " I merely mean that you are expected to vote 
 with Mr. Bulstrode. Do you regard that meaning 
 as offensive ? " 
 
 " It may be offensive to others. But I shall not 
 desist from voting with him on that account." 
 
 Lydgate immediately wrote down " Tyke." 
 
 So the Eev. Walter Tyke became chaplain to the 
 Infirmary, and Lydgate continued to work with Mr. 
 Bulstrode. He was really uncertain whether Tyke 
 were not the more suitable candidate, and yet his 
 consciousness told him that if he had been quite free 
 from indirect bias he should have voted for Mr. 
 Farebrother. The affair of the chaplaincy remained 
 a sore point in his memory as a case in which this 
 petty medium of Middlemarch had been too strong 
 for him. How could a man be satisfied with a de- 
 cision between such alternatives and under such 
 circumstances ? No more than he can be satisfied 
 with his hat, which he has chosen from among such 
 shapes as the resources of the age offer him, wear- 
 ing it at best with a resignation which is chiefly 
 supported by comparison. 
 
 But Mr. Farebrother met him with the same 
 friendliness as before. The character of the publi- 
 can and sinner is not always practically incompat- 
 ible with that of the modern Pharisee, for the 
 
 TOL. 1. 17
 
 258 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 majority of us scarcely see more distinctly the faul- 
 tiness of our own conduct than the faultiness of 
 our own arguments, or the dulness of our own 
 jokes. But the Vicar of St. Botolph's had cer- 
 tainly escaped the slightest tincture of the Pharisee, 
 and by dint of admitting to himself that he was too 
 much as other men were, he had become remarkably 
 unlike them in this, — that he could excuse others 
 for thinking slightly of him, and could judge impar- 
 tially of their conduct even when it told against 
 him. 
 
 " The world has been too strong for me, I know," 
 he said one day to Lydgate. " But then I am not a 
 mighty man, — I shall never be a man of renown. 
 The choice of Hercules is a pretty fable ; but Prodi- 
 cus makes it easy work for the hero, as if the first 
 resolves were enough. Another story says that he 
 came to hold the distaff, and at last wore the Nes- 
 sus shirt. I suppose one good resolve might keep a 
 man right if everybody else's resolve helped him." 
 
 The Vicar's talk was not always inspiriting : he 
 had escaped being a Pharisee, but he had not escaped 
 that low estimate of possibilities which we rather 
 hastily arrive at as an inference from our own failure. 
 Lydgate thought that there was a pitiable infirmity 
 of will in Mr. Farebrother.
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 L'altra veclete ch' ha fatto alia guancia 
 Delia sua palma, sospirando, letto. 
 
 Purgatorio, vii. 
 
 When George the Fourth was still reigning over 
 the privacies of Windsor, when the Duke of Wel- 
 lington was Prime Minister, and Mr. Vincy was 
 mayor of the old corporation in Middle march, Mrs. 
 Casaubon, born Dorothea Brooke, had taken her 
 wedding journey to Eome. In those days the world 
 in general was more ignorant of good and evil by 
 forty years than it is at present. Travellers did not 
 often carry full information on Christian art either 
 in their heads or their pockets ; and even the most 
 brilliant English critic of the day mistook the 
 flower-flushed tomb of the ascended Virgin for an 
 ornamental vase due to the painter's fancy. Ro- 
 manticism, which has helped to fill some dull 
 blanks with love and knowledge, had not yet pene- 
 trated the times with its leaven and entered into 
 everybody's food ; it was fermenting still as a dis- 
 tinguishable vigorous enthusiasm in certain long- 
 haired German artists at Rome, and the youth of 
 other nations who worked or idled near them were 
 sometimes caught in the spreading movement. 
 
 One fine morning a young man whose hair was 
 not immoderately long, but abundant and curly, 
 and who was otherwise English in his equipment, 
 had just turned his back on the Belvedere Torso in 
 the Vatican and was looking out on the magnificent
 
 26o MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 view of the mountains from the adjoining round 
 vestibule. He was sutticiently absorbed not to no- 
 tice the approach of a dark-eyed, animated German 
 who came up to him and placing a hand on his 
 shoulder, said with a strong accent, " Come here, 
 quick ! else she will have changed her pose." 
 
 Quickness was ready at the call, and the two fig- 
 ures passed lightly along by the Meleager towards 
 the hall where the reclining Ariadne, then called 
 the Cleopatra, lies in the marble voluptuousness 
 of her beauty, the drapery folding around her with 
 a petal-like ease and tenderness. They were just 
 in time to see another figure standing against a 
 pedestal near the reclming marble ; a breathing 
 blooming girl, whose form, not shamed by the Ari- 
 adne, was clad in Quakerish gray drapery ; her long 
 cloak, fastened at the neck, was thrown backward 
 from her arms, and one beautiful ungloved hand 
 pillowed her cheek, pushing somewhat backward 
 the white beaver bonnet which made a sort of halo 
 to her face around the simply braided dark-brown 
 hair. She was not looking at the sculpture, prob- 
 ably not thinking of it : her large eyes were fixed 
 dreamily on a streak of sunlight which fell across 
 the floor. But she became conscious of the two 
 strangers, who suddenly paused as if to contemplate 
 the Cleopatra, and, without looking at them, imme- 
 diately turned away to join a maid-servant and 
 courier who were loitering along the hall at a Kttle 
 distance off. 
 
 " What do you think of that for a fine bit of an- 
 tithesis ? " said the German, searching in his friend's 
 face for responding admiration, but going on volu- 
 bly without waiting for any other answer. " There 
 lies antique beauty, not corpse-like even in death.
 
 OLD AND YOUNG. 261 
 
 but arrested in the complete contentment of its sen- 
 suous perfection ; and here stands beauty in its 
 breathing life, with the consciousness of Christian 
 centuries in its bosom. But she should be dressed 
 as a nuu ; I think she looks almost what you call 
 a Quaker ; I would dress her as a nun in my pic- 
 ture. However, she is married ; I saw her wedding- 
 ring on that wonderful left hand, otherwise I should 
 have thought the sallow Gcistlichei^ was her father. 
 I saw him parting from her a good while ago, and 
 just now I found her in that magnificent pose. Only 
 think ! he is perhaps rich, and would like to have 
 her portrait taken. Ah ! it is no use looking after 
 her — there she goes ! Let us follow her home ! " 
 
 " No, no," said his companion, with a little frown. 
 
 " You are singular, Ladislaw. You look struck 
 together. Do you know her ? " 
 
 " I know that she is married to my cousin," said 
 Will Ladislaw, sauntering down the hall with a pre- 
 occupied air, while his German friend kept at his 
 side and watched him eagerly. 
 
 " What ! the Geistlicher ? He looks more like an 
 uncle, — a more useful sort of relation." 
 
 " He is not my uncle. I tell you he is my second 
 cousin," said Ladislaw, with some irritation. 
 
 " Schon, schon. Don't be snappish. You are not 
 angry with me for thinking Mrs. Second-Cousin the 
 most perfect young Madonna I ever saw ? " 
 
 " Angry ? Nonsense. I have only seen her once 
 before, for a couple of minutes, when my cousin 
 introduced her to me, just before I left England. 
 They were not married then. I did n't know they 
 were coming to Rome." 
 
 "But you will go to see them now — you will find 
 out what they have for an address — since you
 
 262 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 kaow the name. Shall we go to the post ? And 
 you could speak about the portrait." 
 
 " Confound you, Naumann ! I don't know what 
 I shall do. I am not so brazen as you." 
 
 " Bah ! that is because you are dilettantish and 
 amateurish. If you were an artist, you would think 
 of Mistress Second-Cousin as antique form ani- 
 mated by Christian sentiment, — a sort of Christian 
 Antigone, — sensuous force controlled by spiritual 
 passion." 
 
 " Yes, and that your painting her was the chief 
 outcome of her existence, — the divinity passing into 
 higher completeness and all but exhausted in the 
 act of covering your bit of canvas. I am amateur- 
 ish if you like : I do not think that all the universe 
 is straining towards the obscure significance of your 
 pictures." 
 
 " But it is, my dear ! — so far as it is straining 
 through me, Adolf Naumann ; that stands firm," 
 said the good-natured painter, putting a hand on 
 Ladislaw's shoulder, and not in the least disturbed 
 by the unaccountable touch of ill-humour in his 
 tone. " See now ! My existence presupposes the 
 existence of the whole universe, — does it not ? and 
 my function is to paint, — and as a painter I have a 
 conception which is altogether genialisch, of your 
 great-aunt or second grandmother as a subject for a 
 picture ; therefore the universe is straining towards 
 that picture through that particular hook or claw 
 which it puts forth in the shape of me — not true ? " 
 
 " But how if another claw in the shape of me is 
 straining to thwart it ? — the case is a little less 
 simple then." 
 
 " Not at all : the result of the struggle is the same 
 thing — picture or no picture — logically."
 
 OLD AND YOUNG. 263 
 
 Will could not resist this imperturbable temper, 
 and the cloud in his face broke into sunshiny- 
 laughter. 
 
 " Come now, my friend, — you will help ? " said 
 Naumann, in a hopeful tone. 
 
 " No ; nonsense, Naumann ! English ladies are 
 not at everybody's service as models. And you 
 want to express too much with your painting. You 
 would only have made a better or worse portrait 
 with a background which every connoisseur would 
 give a different reason for or against. And what is 
 a portrait of a woman ? Your painting and Plastik 
 are poor stuff, after all. They perturb and dull con- 
 ceptions instead of raising them. Language is a finer 
 medium." 
 
 " Yes, for those who can't paint," said Naumann. 
 "There you have perfect right. I did not recom- 
 mend you to paint, my friend." 
 
 The amiable artist carried his sting, but Ladislaw 
 did not choose to appear stung. He went on as if 
 he had not heard. 
 
 " Language gives a fuller image, which is all the 
 better for being vague. After all, the true seeing is 
 within ; and painting stares at you with an insistent 
 imperfection. I feel that especially about represen- 
 tations of women. As if a woman were a mere 
 coloured superficies ! You must wait for movement 
 and tone. There is a difference in their very breath- 
 ing : they change from moment to moment. — This 
 woman whom you have just seen, for example : how 
 would you paint her voice, pray ? But her voice 
 is much diviner than anything you have seen of 
 her." 
 
 "I see, I see. You are jealous. No man must 
 presume to think that he can paint your ideal. This
 
 264 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 is serious, my friend ! Your great-aunt ! * Der 
 Neffe als Onkel ' in a tragic sense, — ungeheuer ! " 
 
 " You and I shall quarrel, Naumann, if you call 
 that lady my aunt again." 
 
 " How is she to be called then ? " 
 
 " Mrs. Casaubon." 
 
 " Good. Suppose I get acquainted with her in 
 spite of you, and find that she very much wishes to 
 be painted ? " 
 
 " Yes, suppose ! " said Will Ladislaw, in a con- 
 temptuous undertone, intended to dismiss the 
 subject. He was conscious of being irritated by 
 ridiculously small causes, which were half of his 
 own creation. Why was he making any fuss about 
 Mrs. Casaubon ? And yet he felt as if something 
 had happened to him with regard to her. There are 
 characters which are continually creating collisions 
 and nodes for themselves in dramas which nobody 
 is prepared to act with them. Their susceptibilities 
 will clash against objects that remain innocently 
 quiet
 
 CHAPTEE XX. 
 
 " A child forsaken, waking suddenly, 
 Whose gaze afeard on all things round doth rove, 
 And seeth only that it cannot see 
 The meeting eyes of love." 
 
 Two hours later, Dorothea was seated in an inner 
 room or boudoir of a handsome apartment in the 
 Via Sistina. 
 
 I am sorry to add that she was sobbing bitterly, 
 with such abandonment to this relief of an oppressed 
 heart as a woman habitually controlled by pride on 
 her own account and thoughtfulness for others will 
 sometimes allow herself when she feels securely 
 alone. And Mr. Casaubon was certain to remain 
 away for some time at the Vatican. 
 
 Yet Dorothea had no distinctly shapen grievance 
 that she could state even to herself; and in the 
 midst of her confused thought and passion, the 
 mental act that was struggling forth into clearness 
 was a self-accusing cry that her feeling of desolation 
 was the fault of her own spiritual poverty. She 
 had married the man of her choice, and with the 
 advantage over most girls that she had contem- 
 plated her marriage chiefly as the beginning of new 
 duties : from the very first she had thought of Mr. 
 Casaubon as having a mind so mmh above her own 
 that he must often be claimed by studies which she 
 could not entirely share ; moreover, after the brief 
 narrow experience of her girlhood she was behold- 
 ing Eome, the city of visible history, where the
 
 266 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 past of a whole hemisphere seems moving in funeral 
 procession witli strange ancestral images and trophies 
 gathered from afar. 
 
 But this stupendous fragmentariness heightened 
 the dream-like strangeness of her bridal life. Doro- 
 thea had now been five weeks in Eome, and in the 
 kindly mornings when autumn and winter seemed 
 to go hand in hand like a happy aged couple one of 
 whom would presently survive in chiller loneliness, 
 she had driven about at first with ?*Ir. Casaubon, 
 but of late chiefly with Tantripp and their experi- 
 enced courier. She had been led through the best 
 galleries, had been taken to the chief points of view, 
 had been shown the grandest ruins and the most 
 glorious churches, and she had ended by oftenest 
 choosing to drive out to the Campagna, where she 
 could feel alone with the earth and sky, away from 
 the oppressive masquerade of ages, in which her 
 own life too seemed to become a masque with 
 enigmatical costumes. 
 
 To those who have looked at Kome with the 
 quickening power of a knowledge which breathes a 
 growing soul into all historic shapes, and traces out 
 the suppressed transitions which unite all contrasts, 
 Eome may still be the spiritual centre and inter- 
 preter of the world. But let them conceive one 
 more historical contrast : the gigantic broken revela- 
 tions of that Imperial and Papal city thrust abruptly 
 on the notions of a girl who had been brought up in 
 English and Swiss Puritanism, fed on meagre Prot- 
 estant histories and on art chiefly of the hand-screen 
 sort ; a girl whose ardent nature turned all her 
 small allowance of knowledge into principles, fusing 
 her actions into their mould, and whose quick emo- 
 tions gave the most abstract things the quality of a
 
 OLD A^D YOUNG. 267 
 
 pleasure or a pain ; a girl who had lately become a 
 wife, and from the enthusiastic acceptance of untried 
 duty found herself plunged in tumultuous preoccu- 
 pation with her personal lot. The weight of unin- 
 telligible Eonie might lie easily on bright nymphs to 
 whom it formed a background for the brilliant picnic 
 of Anglo-foreign society : but Dorothea had no such 
 defence against deep impressions. Euins and basil- 
 icas, palaces and colossi, set in the midst of a sordid 
 present, where all that was living and warm-blooded 
 seemed sunk in the deep degeneracy of a superstition 
 divorced from reverence ; the dimmer but yet eager 
 Titanic life gazing and struggling on walls and ceil- 
 ings ; the long vistas of white forms whose marble 
 eyes seemed to hold the monotonous light of an alien 
 world ; all this vast wreck of ambitious ideals, sen- 
 suous and spiritual, mixed confusedly with the signs 
 of breathing forgetfulness and degradation, at first 
 jarred her as with an electric shock, and then urged 
 themselves on her with that ache belonging to a glut 
 of confused ideas which check the flow of emotion. 
 Forms both pale and glowing took possession of her 
 young sense, and fixed themselves in her memory 
 even when she was not thinking of them, preparing 
 strange associations which remained through her 
 after-years. Our moods are apt to bring with them 
 images which succeed each other like the magic-lan- 
 tern pictures of a doze ; and in certain states of dull 
 forlorn ness Dorothea all her life continued to see the 
 vastness of St. Peter's, the huge bronze canopy, the 
 excited intention in the attitudes and garments of 
 the prophets and evangelists in the mosaics above, 
 and the red drapery which was being hung for 
 Christmns spreading itself everywhere like a diseas'.i 
 of the retina.
 
 268 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 Not that this inward amazement of Dorothea's 
 was anything very exceptional : many souls in their 
 young nudity are tumbled out among incongruities 
 and left to " find their feet " among them, while their 
 elders go about their business. Nor can I suppose 
 that when Mrs. Casaubon is discovered in a fit of 
 weeping six weeks after her wedding, the situation 
 will be regarded as tragic. Some discouragement, 
 some faintness of heart at the new real future which 
 replaces the imaginary, is not unusual, and we do 
 not expect people to be deeply moved by what is 
 not unusual. That element of tragedy which lies 
 in the very fact of frequency, has not yet wrought 
 itself into the coarse emotion of mankind ; and per- 
 haps our frames could hardly bear much of it. If 
 we had a keen vision and feeling of all ordinary 
 human life, it would be like hearing the grass grow 
 and the squirrel's heart beat, and we should die of 
 that roar which lies on the other side of silence. 
 As it is, the quickest of us walk about well wadded 
 with stupidity. 
 
 However, Dorothea was crying, and if she had 
 been required to state the cause, she could only have 
 done so in some such general words as I have al- 
 ready used : to have been driven to be more particu- 
 lar would have been like trying to give a history 
 of the lights and shadows ; for that new real future 
 which was replacing the imaginary drew its mate- 
 rial from the endless minutiae by which her view of 
 Mr. Casaubon and her wifely relation, now that she 
 was married to him, was gradually changing with 
 the secret motion of a watch-hand from what it had 
 been in her maiden dream. It was too early yet for 
 her fully to recognize or at least admit the change, 
 still more for her to have readjusted that devoted-
 
 OLD AND YOUNG. 269 
 
 ness which was so necessary a part of her mental 
 life that she was almost sure sooner or later to re- 
 cover it. Permanent rebellion, the disorder of a 
 life without some loving reverent resolve, was not 
 possible to her; but she was now in an interval 
 when the very force of her nature heightened its 
 confusion. In this way, the early months of mar- 
 riage often are times of critical tumult, — whether 
 that of a shrimp-pool or of deeper waters, — which 
 afterwards subsides into cheerful peace. 
 
 But was not Mr. Casaubon just as learned as 
 before ? Had his forms of expression changed, 01 
 his sentiments become less laudable ? Oh, wayward- 
 ness of womanhood ! did his chronology fail him, 
 or his ability to state not only a theory but the 
 names of those who held it; or his provision for 
 giving the heads of any subject on demand ? And 
 was not Eome the place in all the world to give 
 free play to such accomplishments ? Besides, had 
 not Dorothea's enthusiasm especially dwelt on the 
 prospect of relieving the weight and perhaps the 
 sadness with which great tasks lie on him who has 
 to achieve them ? — And tliat such weight pressed 
 on Mr. Casaubon was only plainer than before. 
 
 All these are crushing questions ; but whatever 
 else remained the same, the liirht had changed, and 
 you cannot find the pearly dawn at noonday. The 
 fact is unalterable, that a fellow-mortal with whose 
 nature you are acquainted solely through the brief 
 entrances and exits of a few imaginative weeks 
 called courtship, may, when seen in the continuity 
 of married companionship, be disclosed as something 
 better or worse than what you have preconceived, 
 but will certainly not appear altogether the same. 
 And it would be astonishing to find how soon the
 
 270 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 change is felt if we had no kindred changes to com- 
 pare with it. To share lodgings with a brilliant 
 dinner-companion, or to see your favourite politician 
 in the Ministry, may bring about changes quite as 
 rapid : in these cases too we begin by knowing 
 little and believing much, and we sometimes end by 
 inverting the quantities. 
 
 Still, such comparisons might mislead, for no man 
 was more incapable of flashy make-believe than Mr. 
 Casaubon: he was as genuine a character as any 
 ruminant animal, and he had not actively assisted 
 in creating any illusions about himself. How was 
 it that in the weeks since her marriage, Dorothea 
 had not distinctly observed but felt with a stifling 
 depression, that the large vistas and wide fresh air 
 which she had dreamed of finding in her husband's 
 mind were replaced by anterooms and winding pas- 
 sages which seemed to lead nowhither ? I suppose it 
 was that in courtship everything is regarded as pro- 
 visional and preliminary, and the smallest sample of 
 virtue or accomplishment is taken to guarantee 
 delightful stores which the broad leisure of marriage 
 will reveal. But, the door-sill of marriage once 
 crossed, expectation is concentrated on the present. 
 Having once embarked on your marital voyage, it is 
 impossible not to be aware that you make no way 
 and that the sea is not within sight, — that, in fact, 
 you are exploring an enclosed basin. 
 
 In their conversation before marriage, Mr. Casau- 
 bon had often dwelt on some explanation or ques- 
 tionable detail of which Dorothea did not see the 
 bearing ; but such imperfect coherence seemed due 
 to the broken ness of their intercourse, and, supported 
 by her faith in their future, she had listened with 
 fervid patience to a recitation of possible arguments
 
 OLD AND YOUNG. 271 
 
 to be brought against Mr. Casaubon's entirely new 
 view of the Philistine god Dagon and other fish- 
 deities, thinking that hereafter she should see this 
 subject which touched him so nearly from the same 
 high ground whence doubtless it had become so 
 important to him. Again, the matter-of-course 
 statement and tone of dismissal with which he 
 treated what to her were the most stirring thoughts, 
 was easily accounted for as belonging to the sense 
 of haste and preoccupation in which she herself 
 shared during their engagement. But now, since 
 they had been in Eome, with all the depths of her 
 emotion roused to tumultuous activity, and with 
 life made a new problem by new elements, she had 
 been becoming more and more aware, with a certain 
 terror, that her mind was continually sliding into 
 inward fits of anger and repulsion, or else into 
 forlorn weariness. How far the judicious Hooker 
 or any other hero of erudition would have been the 
 same at Mr. Casaubon's time of life, she had no 
 means of knowing, so that he could not have the 
 advantage of comparison ;• but her husband's way of 
 commenting on the strangely impressive objects 
 around them had begun to affect her with a sort of 
 mental shiver : he had perhaps the best intention of 
 acquitting himself worthily, but only of acquitting 
 himself. What was fresh to her mind was worn 
 out to his ; and such capacity of thought and feeling 
 as had ever been stimulated in him by the general 
 life of mankind had long shrunk to a sort of dried 
 preparation, a lifeless embalmment of knowledge. 
 
 Wlien he said, " Does this interest you, Dorothea ? 
 Shall we stay a little longer ? I am ready to stay if 
 you wish it," — it seemed to her as if going or stay- 
 ing were alike dreary. Or, " Should you like to go
 
 272 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 to the Farnesina, Dorothea ? It contains celebrated 
 frescos designed or painted by Eaphael, which most 
 persons think it worth while to visit." 
 
 "But do you care about them?" was always 
 Dorothea's question. 
 
 " They are, I believe, highly esteemed. Some of 
 them represent the fable of Cupid and Psyche, which 
 is probably the romantic invention of a literary 
 period, and cannot, I think, be reckoned as a genu- 
 ine mythical product. But if you like these wall- 
 paintings we can easily drive thither; and you will 
 then, 1 think, have seen the chief works of Eaphael, 
 any of which it were a pity to omit in a visit to 
 Eome. He is the painter who has been held to com- 
 bine the most complete grace of form with sublimity 
 of expression. Such at least I have gathered to be 
 the opinion of conoscenti." 
 
 This kind of answer given in a measured official 
 tone, as of a clergyman reading according to the 
 rubric, did not help to justify the glories of the 
 Eternal City, or to give her the hope that if she 
 knew more about them the world would be joyously 
 illuminated for her. There is hardly any contact 
 more depressing to a young ardent creature than 
 that of a mind in which years full of knowledge 
 seem to have issued in a blank absence of interest 
 or sympathy. 
 
 On other subjects indeed Mr. Casaubon showed a 
 tenacity of occupation and an eagerness which are 
 usually regarded as the effect of enthusiasm, and 
 Dorothea was anxious to follow this spontaneous 
 direction of his thoughts, instead of being made to 
 feel that she dragged him away from it. But she 
 was gradually ceasing to expect with her former 
 delightful confidence that she should see any wide
 
 OLD AND YOUNG. 273 
 
 opening where she followed him. Poor Mr. Casau- 
 bon himself was lost among small closets and wind- 
 ing stairs, and in an agitated dimness about the 
 Cabeiri, or in an exposure of other mythologists' ill- 
 considered parallels, easily lost sight of any purpose 
 which had prompted him to these labours. With 
 his taper stuck before him he forgot the absence of 
 windows, and in bitter manuscript remarks on other 
 men's notions about the solar deities, he had become 
 indifferent to the sunlight. 
 
 These characteristics, fixed and unchangeable as 
 bone in Mr. Casaubon, might have remained longer 
 unfelt by Dorothea if she had been encouraged to 
 pour forth her girlish and womanly feeling — if he 
 would have held her hands between his and listened 
 with the delight of tenderness and understanding to 
 all the little histories which made up her experience, 
 and would have given her the same sort of intimacy 
 in return, so that the past life of each could be 
 included in their mutual knowledge and affection — 
 or if she could have fed her affection with those 
 childlike caresses which are the bent of every sweet 
 woman, who has begun by showering kisses on the 
 hard pate of her bald doll, creating a happy soul 
 within that woodenness from the wealth of her own 
 love. That was Dorothea's bent. With all her 
 yearning to know what was afar from her and to be 
 widely benignant, she had ardour enough for what 
 was near, to have kissed Mr. Casaubon's coat-sleeve, 
 or to have caressed his shoe-latchet, if he would 
 have made any other sign of acceptance than pro- 
 nouncing her, with his unfailing propriety, to be of 
 a most affectionate and truly feminine nature, indi- 
 cating at the same time by politely reaching a chair 
 for her that he regarded these manifestations as 
 
 VOL. I. — 18
 
 274 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 rather crude and startling. Having made his cleri- 
 cal toilet with due care in the morning, he was pre- 
 pared only for those amenities of life which were 
 suited to the well-adjusted stiff cravat of the 
 period, and to a mind weighted with unpublished 
 matter. 
 
 And by a sad contradiction Dorothea's ideas and 
 resolves seemed like melting ice floating and lost in 
 the warm flood of which they had been but another 
 form. She was humiliated to find herself a mere 
 victim of feeling, as if she could know nothing 
 except through that medium : all her strength was 
 scattered in fits of agitation, of struggle, of despon- 
 dency, and then again in visions of more complete 
 renunciation, transforming all hard conditions into 
 duty. Poor Dorothea ! she was certainly trouble- 
 some — to herself chiefly ; but this morning for the 
 first time she had been troublesome to Mr. Casaubon. 
 
 She had begun, while they were taking coffee, 
 with a determination to shake off what she inwardly 
 called her selfishness, and turned a face all cheerful 
 attention to her husband when he said, " My dear 
 Dorothea, we must now think of all that is yet left 
 undone, as a preliminary to our departure. I would 
 fain have returned home earlier, that we might have 
 been at Lowick for the Christmas ; but my inquiries 
 here have been protracted beyond their anticipated 
 period. I trust, however, that the time here has 
 not been passed unpleasantly to you. Among the 
 sights of Europe, that of Kome has ever been held 
 one of the most striking and in some respects edify- 
 ing. I well remember that I considered it an epoch 
 in my life when I visited it for the first time ; after 
 the fall of Napoleon, an event which opened the 
 Continent to travellers. Indeed I think it is one
 
 OLD AND YOUNG. 275 
 
 among several cities to which an extreme hyperbole 
 has been applied, — ' See Kome and die : ' but in 
 your case I would propose an emendation and say, 
 See Eome as a bride, and live henceforth as a happy 
 wife." 
 
 Mr. Casaubon pronounced this little speech with 
 the most conscientious intention, blinking a little 
 and swaying his head up and down, and concluding 
 with a smile. He had not found marriage a raptu- 
 rous state, but he had no idea of being anything else 
 than an irreproachable husband, who would make a 
 charming young woman as happy as she deserved 
 to be. 
 
 " I hope you are thoroughly satisfied with our 
 stay, — I mean, with the result so far as your stud- 
 ies are concerned," said Dorothea, trying to keep 
 her mind fixed on wliat most affected her husband. 
 
 " Yes," said Mr. Casaubon, with that peculiar 
 pitch of voice which makes the word half a negative. 
 " I have been led farther than I had foreseen, and 
 various subjects for annotation have presented them- 
 selves which, though I have no direct need of them, 
 I could not pretermit. The task, notwithstanding 
 the apsistance of my amanuensis, has been a some- 
 what laborious one, but your society has happily 
 prevented me from that too continuous prosecution 
 of thought beyond the hours of study which has 
 been the snare of my solitary life." 
 
 " I am very glad that my presence has made any 
 difference to you," said Dorothea, who had a vivid 
 memory of evenings in which she had supposed 
 that Mr. Casaubon's mind had gone too deep during 
 the day to be able to get to the surface again. I 
 fear there was a little temper in her reply. "I 
 hope when we get to Lowick, I shall be more use-
 
 276 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 ful to you, and be able to enter a little more into 
 what interests you." 
 
 " Doubtless, my dear," said Mr. Casaubon, with a 
 slight bow. ' The notes I have here made will want 
 sifting, and you can, if you please, extract them 
 under my direction." 
 
 " And all your notes," said Dorothea, whose heart 
 had already burned within her on this subject, so 
 that now she could not help speaking with her 
 tongue. " All those rows of volumes — will you 
 not now do what you used to speak of ? — will you 
 not make up your mind what part of them you will 
 use, and begin to write the book which will make 
 your vast knowledge useful to the world ? I will 
 write to your dictation, or I will copy and extract 
 what you tell me : I can be of no other use." 
 Dorothea, in a most unaccountable, darkly feminine 
 manner, ended with a slight sob and eyes full of 
 tears. 
 
 The excessive feeling manifested would alone 
 have been highly disturbing to Mr. Casaubon, but 
 there were other reasons v/hy Dorothea's words were 
 among the most cutting and irritating to him that 
 she could have been impelled to use. She was as 
 blind to his inward troubles as he to hers ; she had 
 not yet learned those hidden conflicts in her hus- 
 band which claim our pity. She had not yet lis- 
 tened patiently to his heart-beats, but only felt that 
 her own was beating violently. In Mr. Casaubou's 
 ear, Dorothea's voice gave loud emphatic iteration 
 to those muffled suggestions of consciousness which 
 it was possible to explain as mere fancy, the illusion 
 of exaggerated sensitiveness : always when such sug- 
 gestions are unmistakably repeated from without, 
 they are resisted as cruel and unjust. We are an-
 
 OLD AND YOUNG. 277 
 
 gered even by the full acceptance of our humiliat- 
 ing confessions, — how much more by hearing in 
 hard distinct syllables, from the lips of a near ob- 
 server, those confused murmurs which we try to 
 call morbid, and strive against as if they were the 
 oncoming of numbness ! And this cruel outward 
 accuser was there in the shape of a wife,- — -nay, of 
 a young bride, who, instead of observing his abun- 
 dant pen-scratches and amplitude of paper with the 
 uncritical awe of an elegant-minded canary-bird, 
 seemed to present herself as a spy watching every- 
 thing with a malign power of inference. Here, 
 towards this particular point of the compass, Mr. 
 Casaubon had a sensitiveness to match Dorothea's 
 and an equal quickness to imagine more than the 
 fact. He had formerly observed with approbation 
 her capacity for worshipping the right object; he 
 now foresaw with sudden terror that this capacity 
 might be replaced by presumption, this worship by 
 the most exasperating of all criticism, — that which 
 sees vaguely a great many fine ends, and has not 
 the least notion what it costs to reach them. 
 
 For the first time since Dorothea had known 
 him, Mr. Oasaubon's face had a quick angry flush 
 upon it. 
 
 " ]\Iy love," he said, with irritation reined in by 
 propriety, " you may rely upon me for knowing the 
 times and the seasons adapted to the different stages 
 of a work which is not to be measured by the facile 
 conjectures of ignorant onlookers. It had been easy 
 for me to gain a temporary effect by a mirage of 
 baseless opinion ; but it is ever the trial of the 
 scrupulous explorer to be saluted with the impatient 
 scorn of chatterers who attempt only the smallest 
 achievements, being indeed equipped for no other.
 
 278 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 And it were well if all such could be admonished 
 to discriminate judgments of which the true subject- 
 matter lies entirely beyond their reach, from those 
 of which the elements may be compassed by a nar- 
 row and superficial survey." 
 
 This speech was delivered with an energy and 
 readiness quite unusual with Mr. Casaubon. It 
 was not indeed entirely an improvisation, but had 
 taken shape in inward colloquy, and rushed out 
 like the round grains from a fruit when sudden 
 heat cracks it. Dorothea was not only his wife : 
 she was a personification of that shallow world 
 which surrounds the ill-appreciated or desponding 
 author. 
 
 Dorothea was indignant in her turn. Had she 
 not been repressing everything in herself except the 
 desire to enter into some fellowsliip with her hus- 
 band's chief interests? 
 
 " My judgment «<;«s a very superficial one, — such 
 as I am capable of forming," she answered, with a 
 prompt resentment, that needed no rehearsal. " You 
 showed me the rows of notebooks — you have often 
 spoken of them — you have often said that they 
 wanted digesting. But I never heard you speak 
 of the writing that is to be published. Those 
 were very simple facts, and my judgment went no 
 farther. I only begged you to let me be of some 
 good to you." 
 
 Dorothea rose to leave the table, and Mr. Casau- 
 bon made no reply, taking up a letter which lay be- 
 side him as if to reperuse it. Both were shocked 
 at their mutual situation, — that each should have 
 betrayed anger towards the other. If they had been 
 at home, settled at Lowick in ordinary life among 
 their neighbours, the clash would have been less
 
 OLD AND YOUNG. ±79 
 
 embarrassing ; but on a wedding journey, the ex- 
 press object of which is to isolate two people on 
 the ground that they are all the world to each other, 
 the sense of disagreement is, to say the least, con- 
 founding and stultifying. To have changed your 
 longitude extensively, and placed yourselves in a 
 moral solitude in order to have small explosions, 
 to find conversation difficult and to hand a glass of 
 water without looking, can hardly be regarded as 
 satisfactory fulfilment even to the toughest minds. 
 To Dorothea's inexperienced sensitiveness, it seemed 
 like a catastrophe, changing all prospects ; and to 
 Mr. Casaubon it was a new pain, he never having 
 been on a wedding journey before, or found himself 
 in that close union which was more of a subjection 
 than he had been able to imagine, since this charm- 
 ing young bride not only obliged him to much con- 
 sideration on her behalf (which he had sedulously 
 given), but turned out to be capable of agitating him 
 cruelly just where he most needed soothing. In- 
 stead of getting a soft fence against the cold, shad- 
 owy, unapplausive audience of his life, had he only 
 given it a more substantial presence ? 
 
 Neither of them felt it possible to speak again at 
 present. To have reversed a previous arrangement 
 and declined to go out would have been a show of 
 persistent anger which Dorothea's conscience shrank 
 from, seeing that she already began to feel herself 
 guilty. However just her indignation might be, 
 her ideal was not to claim justice, but to give ten- 
 derness. So when the carriage came to the door, 
 she drove with Mr. Casaubon to the Vatican, walked 
 with him through the stony avenue of inscriptions, 
 and when she parted with him at the entrance to 
 the Library, went on through the Museum out of
 
 •28o MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 mere listlessness as to what was around her. She 
 had not spirit to turn round and say that she would 
 drive anywhere. It was when Mr. Casaubon was 
 quitting her that Naumann had first seen her, and 
 he had entered the long gallery of sculpture at the 
 same time with her ; but here Naumann had to await 
 Ladislaw, with whom he was to settle a bet of cham- 
 pagne about an enigmatical mediajval-lookiug figure 
 there. After they had examined the figure and had 
 walked on finishing their dispute, they had parted, 
 Ladislaw lingering behind while Naumann had gone 
 into the Hall of Statues, where he again saw Doro- 
 thea, and saw her in that brooding abstraction which 
 made her pose remarkable. She did not really see 
 the streak of sunlight on the floor more than she 
 saw the statues : she was inwardly seeing the light 
 of years to come in her own home and over the Eng- 
 lish fields and elms and hedge-bordered highroads ; 
 and feeling that the way in which they might be 
 filled with joyful devotedness was not so clear to 
 her as it had been. But in Dorothea's mind there 
 was a current into which all thought and feeling 
 were apt sooner or later to flow — the reaching for- 
 ward of the whole consciousness towards the fullest 
 truth, the least partial good. There was clearly 
 something better than anger and despondency.
 
 CHAPTEE XXI. 
 
 Hire facounde eke full womanly and plain. 
 No contrefeted termes had she 
 To semen wise. 
 
 Chauceb. 
 
 It was in that way Dorothea came to be sobbing as 
 soon as she was securely alone. But she was pres- 
 ently roused by a knock at the door, which made 
 her hastily dry her eyes before saying, " Come in. " 
 Tantripp had brought a card, and said that there 
 was a gentleman waiting in the lobby. The courier 
 had told him that only Mrs. Casaubon was at 
 home, but he said he was a relation of Mr. 
 Casaubon 's : would she see him ? 
 
 " Yes, " said Dorothea, without pause ; " show 
 him into the salon. " Her chief impressions about 
 young Ladislaw were that when she had seen him 
 at Lowick she had been made aware of Mr. Casau- 
 bon 's generosity towards him, and also that she 
 had been interested in his own hesitation about 
 his career. She was alive to anything that gave 
 her an opportunity for active sympathy, and at 
 this moment it seemed as if the visit had come 
 to shake her out of her self-absorbed discontent, 
 — to remind her of her husband's goodness, and 
 make her feel that she had now the right to be his 
 helpmate in all kind deeds. She waited a minute 
 or two, but when she passed into the next room 
 there were just signs enough that she had been 
 crying to make her open face look more youthful
 
 282 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 and appealing than usual. She met Ladislaw 
 with that exquisite smile of good-will which is 
 unmixed with vanity, and held out her hand to 
 him. He was the elder by several years, but at 
 that moment he looked much the younger, for his 
 transparent complexion flushed suddenly, and he 
 spoke with a shyness extremely unlike the ready 
 indifference of his manner with his male compan- 
 ion, while Dorothea became all the calmer with a 
 wondering desire to put him at ease. 
 
 " I was not aware that you and Mr. Casaubon 
 were in Kome, until this morning, when I saw 
 you in the Vatican Museum, " he said. " I knew 
 you at once — but — I mean, that I concluded Mr, 
 Casaubon 's address would be found at the Poste 
 Eestante, and I was anxious to pay my respects 
 to him and you as early as possible. " 
 
 " Pray sit down. He is not here now, but he 
 will be glad to hear of you, I am sure, " said Doro- 
 thea, seating herself unthinkingly between the fire 
 and the light of the tall window, and pointing to 
 a chair opposite, with the quietude of a benignant 
 matron. The signs of girlish sorrow in her face 
 were only the more striking. " Mr. Casaubon is 
 much engaged ; but you will leave your address, 
 — will you not ? — and he will write to you. " 
 
 " You are very good," said Ladislaw, beginning 
 to lose his diffidence in the interest with which he 
 was observing the signs of weeping which had 
 altered her face. " My address is on my card. 
 But if you will allow me I will call again to- 
 morrow at an hour when Mr. Casaubon is likely 
 to be at home. " 
 
 " He goes to read in the Library of the Vatican 
 every day, and you can hardly see him except by
 
 OLD AND YOUNG. 283 
 
 an appointment. Especially now. We are about 
 to leave Eome, and he is very busy. He is usually 
 away almost from breakfast till dinner. But I 
 am sure he will wish you to dine with us. " 
 
 Will Ladislaw was struck mute for a few 
 moments. He had never been fond of Mr. Casau- 
 bon, and if it had not been for the sense of obliga- 
 tion, would have laughed at him as a Bat of 
 erudition. But the idea of this dried-up pedant, 
 this elaborator of small explanations about as 
 important as the surplus stock of false antiquities 
 kept in a vendor's back chamber, having first got 
 this adorable young creature to marry him, and 
 then passing his honeymoon away from her, grop- 
 ing after his mouldy futilities (Will was given to 
 hyperbole), — this sudden picture stirred him with 
 a sort of comic disgust: he was divided between 
 the impulse to laugh aloud and the equally unsea- 
 sonable impulse to burst into scornful invective. 
 For an instant he felt that the struggle was causing 
 a queer contortion of his mobile features, but with 
 a good effort he resolved it into nothing more 
 offensive than a merry smile. 
 
 Dorothea wondered; but the smile was irresis- 
 tible, and shone back from her face too. Will 
 Ladislaw 's smile was delightful, unless you were 
 angry with him beforehand : it was a gush of 
 inward light illuminating the transparent skin as 
 well as the eyes, and playing about every curve and 
 line as if some Ariel were touching them with a 
 new charm, and banishing forever the traces of 
 moodiness. The reflection of that smile could not 
 but have a little merriment in it too, even under 
 dark eyelashes still moist, as Dorothea said inquir 
 ingly, " Something amuses you ? "
 
 284 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 " Yes, " said Will, quick in finding resources. 
 " I am thinking of the sort of figure I cut the first 
 time I saw you, when you annihilated my poor 
 sketch with your criticism. " 
 
 " My criticism ? " said Dorothea, wondering 
 still more. " Surely not. I always feel particu- 
 larly ignorant about painting. " 
 
 " I suspected you of knowing so much, that 
 you knew how to say just what was most cut- 
 ting. You said — I dare say you don't remem- 
 ber it as I do — that the relation of my sketch 
 to nature was quite hidden from you. At least, 
 you implied that. " Will could laugh now as well 
 as smile. 
 
 " That was really my ignorance, " said Dorothea, 
 admiring Will's good-humour. " I must have said 
 so only because I never could see any beauty in 
 the pictures which my uncle told me all judges 
 thought very fine. And I have gone about with 
 just the same ignorance in Rome. There are com- 
 paratively few paintings that I can really enjoy. 
 At first when I enter a room where the walls are 
 covered with frescos or with rare pictures, I feel 
 a kind of awe, — like a child present at great cere- 
 monies where there are grand robes and processions ; 
 I feel myself in the presence of some higher life 
 than my own. But when I begin to examine the 
 pictures one by one, the life goes out of tliem, or 
 else is something violent and strange to me. It 
 must be my own dulness. I am seeing so much all 
 at once, and not understanding half of it. That 
 always makes one feel stupid. It is painful to be 
 told that anything is very fine and not be able to 
 feel that it is fine, — something like being blind, 
 while people talk of the sky. "
 
 OLD AND YOUNG. 285 
 
 " Oh, there is a great deal in the feeling for art 
 which must be acquired, " said Will. (It was 
 impossible now to doubt the directness of Doro- 
 thea's confession.) " Art is an old language with 
 a great many artificial affected styles, and some- 
 times the chief pleasure one gets out of knowing 
 them is the mere sense of knowing. I enjoy the 
 art of all sorts here immensely ; but I suppose if 
 I could pick my enjoyment to pieces I should 
 find it made up of many different threads. There 
 is something in daubing a little one's self, and 
 having an idea of the process. " 
 
 " Yon mean perhaps to be a painter ? " said 
 Dorothea, with a new direction of interest. " You 
 mean to make painting your profession ? Mr. 
 Casaubon will like to hear that you have chosen 
 a profession. " 
 
 "No, oh, no," said Will, with some coldness. 
 " I have quite made up my mind against it. It 
 is too one-sided a life. I have been seeing a great 
 deal of the German artists here : I travelled from 
 Frankfort with one of them. Some are fine, even 
 brilliant fellows, — but I should not like to get 
 into their way of looking at the world entirely 
 from the studio point of view. " 
 
 " That I can understand, " said Dorothea, cor- 
 dially. " And in Eome it seems as if there were so 
 many things which are more wanted in the world 
 than pictures. But if you have a genius for 
 painting, would it not be right to take that as 
 a guide ? Perhaps you might do better things 
 than these, — or different, so that there might 
 not be so many pictures almost all alike in the 
 same place. " 
 
 There was no mistaking this simplicity, and
 
 286 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 Will was won by it into frankness. " A man must 
 have a very rare genius to make changes of that 
 sort. I am afraid mine would not carry me even 
 to the pitch of doing well what has heen done 
 already, at least not so well as to make it worth 
 while. And I should never succeed in anything 
 by dint of drudgery. If things don't come easily 
 to me, I never get them. " 
 
 " I have heard Mr. Casaubon say that he regrets 
 your want of patience," said Dorothea, gently. 
 She was rather shocked at this mode of taking all 
 life as a holiday. 
 
 " Yes, I know Mr. Casaubon 's opinion. He and 
 I differ. " 
 
 The slight streak of contempt in this hasty reply 
 offended Dorothea. She was all the more suscep- 
 tible about Mr Casaubon because of her morning's 
 trouble. 
 
 " Certainly you differ, " she said, rather proudly. 
 " I did not think of comparing you : such power of 
 persevering devoted labour as Mr. Casaubon's is 
 not common. " 
 
 Will saw that she was offended, but this only 
 gave an additional impulse to the new irritation of 
 his latent dislike towards Mr. Casaubon. It was 
 too intolerable that Dorothea should be worship- 
 ping this husband : such weakness in a woman is 
 pleasant to no man but the husband in question. 
 Mortals are easily tempted to pinch the life out 
 of their neighbour's buzzing glory, and think that 
 such killing is no murder. 
 
 " No, indeed, " he answered promptly. " And 
 therefore it is a pity that it should be thrown 
 away, as so much English scholarship is, for want 
 of knowing what is being done by the rest of the
 
 OLD AND YOUNG. 287 
 
 world. If Mr. Casaubon read German, he would 
 save himself a great deal of trouble. " 
 
 " I do not understand you," said Dorothea, 
 startled and anxious. 
 
 " I merely mean, " said Will, in an offhand way, 
 " that the Germans have taken the lead in histori- 
 cal inquiries, and they laugh at results which are 
 got by groping about in woods with a pocket- 
 compass while they have made good roads. When 
 I was with Mr. Casaubon, I saw that he deafened 
 himself in that direction : it was almost against 
 his will that he read a Latin treatise written by a 
 German. I was very sorry. " 
 
 Will only thought of giving a good pinch that 
 would annihilate that vaunted laboriousness, and 
 was unable to imagine the mode in which Doro- 
 thea would be wounded. Young Mr. Ladislaw 
 was not at all deep himself in German writers ; but 
 very little achievement is required in order to pity 
 another man's shortcomings. 
 
 Poor Dorothea felt a pang at the thought that 
 the labour of her husband's life might be void, 
 which left her no energy to spare for the question 
 whether this young relative who was so much 
 obliged to him ought not to have repressed his 
 observation. She did not even speak, but sat 
 looking at her hands, absorbed in the piteousness 
 of that thought. 
 
 Will, however, having given that annihilating 
 pinch, was rather ashamed, imagining from Doro- 
 thea's silence that he had offended her still more ; 
 and having also a conscience about plucking the 
 tail-feathers from a benefactor. 
 
 " I regretted it especially, " he resumed, taking 
 the usual course from detraction to insincere
 
 288 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 eulogy, " because of iny gratitude and respect 
 towards my cousiu. It would not signify so much 
 in a man whose talents and character were less 
 distinguished. " 
 
 Dorothea raised her eyes, brighter than usual 
 with excited feeling, and said in her saddest recita- 
 tive : " How I wish I had learned German when 1 
 was at Lausanne ! There were plenty of German 
 teachers. But now I can be of no use. " 
 
 There was a new light, but still a mysterious 
 light, for Will in Dorothea's last words. The 
 question how she had come to accept Mr. Casaubon 
 — which he had dismissed when he first saw her by 
 saying that she must be disagreeable in spite of 
 appearances — was not now to be answered on any 
 such short and easy method. Whatever else she 
 might be, she was not disagreeable. She was not 
 coldly clever and indirectly satirical, but adorably 
 simple and full of feeling. She was an angel 
 beguiled. It would be a unique delight to wait 
 and watch for the melodious fragments in which 
 her heart and soul came forth so directly and 
 ingenuously. The vEolian harp again came into 
 his mind. 
 
 She must have made some original romance for 
 herself in this marriage. And if Mr. Casaubon 
 had been a dragon who had carried her off to his 
 lair with his talons simply and without legal 
 forms, it would have been an unavoidable feat of 
 heroism to release her and fall at her feet. But he 
 was something more unmanageable than a dragon : 
 he was a benefactor with collective society at his 
 back, and he was at that moment entering the 
 room in all the unimpeachable correctness of his 
 demeanour, while Dorothea was looking animated
 
 OLD AND YOUNG. 289 
 
 with a newly roused alarm and regret, and Will 
 was looking animated with his admiring specula- 
 tion about her feelings. 
 
 Mr. Casaubon felt a surprise which was quite 
 unmixed with pleasure, but he did not swerve 
 from his usual politeness of greeting, when Will 
 rose and explained his presence. Mr. Casaubon 
 was less happy than usual, and this perhaps made 
 him look all the dimmer and more faded ; else the 
 effect might easily have been produced by the con- 
 trast of his young cousin's appearance. The first 
 impression on seeing Will was one of sunny bright- 
 ness, which added to the uncertainty of his chang- 
 ing expression. Surely, his very features changed 
 their form ; his jaw looked sometimes large and 
 sometimes small ; and the little ripple in his nose 
 was a preparation for metamorphosis. When he 
 turned his head quickly, his hair seemed to shake 
 out light, and some persons thought they saw 
 decided genius in this coruscation. Mr. Casau- 
 bon, on the contrary, stood rayless. 
 
 As Dorothea's eyes were turned anxiously on her 
 husband, she was perhaps not insensible to the con- 
 trast, but it was only mingled with other causes in 
 making her more conscious of that new alarm on 
 his behalf which was the first stirring of a pitying 
 tenderness fed by the realities of his lot and not 
 by her own dreams. Yet it was a source of 
 greater freedom to her that Will was there ; his 
 young equality was agreeable, and also perhaps his 
 openness to conviction. She felt an immense need 
 of some one to speak to, and she had never before 
 seen any one who seemed so quick and pliable, 
 so likely to understand everything. 
 
 Mr. Casaubon gravely hoped that Will was 
 
 VOL. I. — 19
 
 290 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 passing his time profitably as well as pleasantly in 
 Eome, — had thought his intention was to remain 
 in South Germany, — but begged him to come and 
 dine to-morrow, when he could converse more at 
 large : at present he was somewhat weary. Lad- 
 islaw understood, and accepting the invitation 
 immediately took his leave. 
 
 Dorothea's eyes followed her husband anxiously, 
 while he sank down wearily at the end of a sofa, 
 and resting his elbow, supported his head and 
 looked on the floor. A little flushed and with 
 bright eyes, she seated herself beside him, and 
 said, — • 
 
 " Porgive me for speaking so hastily to you this 
 morning. I was wrong. I fear I hurt you, and 
 made the day more burdensome. " 
 
 " I am glad that you feel that, my dear, " said 
 Mr. Casaubon. He spoke quietly and bowed his 
 head a little, but there was still an uneasy feeling 
 in his eyes as he looked at her. 
 
 " But you do forgive me ? " said Dorothea, with 
 a quick sob. In her need for some manifestation 
 of feeling she was ready to exaggerate her own 
 fault. Would not love see returning penitence 
 afar off, and fall on its neck and kiss it ? 
 
 " My dear Dorothea, — ' who with repentance is 
 not satisfied, is not of heaven nor earth : ' you 
 do not think me worthy to be banished by that 
 severe sentence, " said Mr. Casaubon, exerting 
 himself to make a strong statement, and also to 
 smile faintly. 
 
 Dorothea was silent, but a tear which had come 
 up with the sob would insist on falling. 
 
 " You are excited, my dear. And I also am 
 feeling some unpleasant consequences of too much
 
 OLD AND YOUNG. 291 
 
 mental disturbance, " said Mr. Casaubou In fact, 
 he had it in his thought to tell her that she ought 
 not to have received young Ladislaw in his 
 absence ; but he abstained, partly from the sense 
 that it would be ungracious to bring a new com- 
 plaint in the moment of her penitent acknowledg- 
 ment, partly because he wanted to avoid further 
 agitation of himself by speech, and partly because 
 he was too proud to betray that jealousy of dispo- 
 sition which was not so exhausted on his scholarly 
 compeers that there was none to spare in other 
 directions. There is a sort of jealousy which 
 needs very little fire : it is hardly a passion, but 
 a blight bred in the cloudy, damp despondency of 
 uneasy egoism. 
 
 " I think it is time for us to dress," he added, 
 looking at his watch. They both rose, and there 
 was never any further allusion between them to 
 what had passed on this day. 
 
 But Dorothea remembered it to the last with the 
 vividness with which we all remember epochs in 
 our experience when some dear expectation dies, 
 or some new motive is born. To-day she had 
 begun to see that she had been under a wild illu- 
 sion in expecting a response to her feeling from 
 Mr. Casaubon, and she had felt the waking of a 
 presentiment that there might be a sad conscious- 
 ness in his life which made as great a need on his 
 side as on her own. 
 
 We are all of us born in moral stupidity, taking 
 the world as an udder to feed our supreme selves : 
 Dorothea had early begun to emerge from that 
 stupidity, but yet it had been easier to her to 
 imagine how she would devote herself to Mr. 
 Casaubon, and become wise and strong in his
 
 292 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 strength and wisdom, than to conceive with that 
 distinctness which is no longer reflection but feel- 
 ing, — an idea wrought back to the directness of 
 sense, like the solidity of objects, — that he had 
 an equivalent centre of self, whence the lights and 
 shadows must always fall with a certain difference.
 
 CHAPTEE XXII. 
 
 Nous causames longtemps ; elle etait simple et bonne 
 Ne sachant pas le mal, elle faisait le bien ; 
 Des richesses du cceur elle me fit I'aumone, 
 Et tout en e'coutant comme le coeur se donne, 
 Sans oser y penser, je lui donnai le mien ; 
 Elle emporta ma vie, et n'en sut jamais rien. 
 
 Alfred de Musset. 
 
 Will Ladislaw was delightfully agreeable at 
 dinner the next day, and gave no opportunity for 
 Mr. Casaubon to show disapprobation. On the con- 
 trary it seemed to Dorothea that Will had a hap- 
 pier way of drawing her husband into conversation 
 and of deferentially listening to him than she had 
 ever observed in any one before. To be sure, 
 the listeners about Tipton were not highly gifted! 
 Will talked a good deal himself, but what he said 
 was thrown in with such rapidity, and with such 
 an unimportant air of saying something by the 
 way, that it seemed a gay little chime after the 
 great bell. If Will was not always perfect, this 
 was certainly one of his good days. He described 
 touches of incident among the poor people in 
 Eome, only to be seen by one who could move 
 about freely ; he found himself in agreement with 
 Mr. Casaubon as to the unsound opinions of Mid- 
 dleton concerning the relations of Judaism and 
 Catholicism ; and passed easily to a half-enthu- 
 siastic, half-playful picture of the enjoyment he 
 got out of the very miscellaneousness of Eome, 
 which made the mind flexible with constant com-
 
 294 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 parison, and saved you from seeing the world's 
 ages as a set of box-like partitions without vital 
 connection. Mr. Casaubon's studies, Will ob- 
 served, had always been of too broad a kind for 
 that, and he had perhaps never felt any such 
 sudden effect, but for himself he confessed that 
 Eome had given him quite a new sense of history 
 as a whole : the fragments stimulated his imagina- 
 tion and made him constructive. Then occasion- 
 ally, but not too often, he appealed to Dorothea, 
 and discussed what she said, as if her sentiment 
 were an item to be considered in the final judgment 
 even of the Madonna di Foligno or the Laocoon. 
 A sense of contributing to form the world's opinion 
 makes conversation particularly cheerful; and Mr. 
 Casaubon too was not without his pride in his 
 young wife, who spoke better than most women, 
 as indeed he had perceived in choosing her. 
 
 Since things were going on so pleasantly, Mr. 
 Casaubon's statement that his labours in the Li- 
 brary would be suspended for a couple of days, and 
 that after a brief renewal he should have no further 
 reason for staying in Eome, encouraged Will to 
 urge that Mrs. Casaubon should not go away with- 
 out seeing a studio or two. Would not Mr. Casau- 
 bon take her? That sort of thing ought not to be 
 missed : it was quite special : it was a form of life 
 that grew like a small fresh vegetation with its 
 population of insects on huge fossils. Will would 
 be happy to conduct them, — not to anything 
 wearisome, only to a few examples. 
 
 Mr. Casaubon, seeing Dorothea look earnestly 
 towards him, could not but ask her if she would 
 be interested in such visits : he was now at her 
 service during the whole day ; and it was agreed
 
 OLD AND YOUNG. 295 
 
 that Will should come on the morrow and drive 
 
 with them. 
 
 Will could not omit Thorwaldsen, a living 
 celebrity about whom even Mr. Casaubon inquired, 
 but before the day was far advanced he led the 
 way to the studio of his friend Adolf Naumann, 
 whom he mentioned as one of the chief renovators 
 of Christian art, one of those who had not only 
 revived but expanded that grand conception of 
 supreme events as mysteries at which the succes- 
 sive ages were spectators, and in relation to which 
 the great souls of all periods became as it were 
 contemporaries. Will added that he had made 
 himself Naumann 's pupil for the nonce. 
 
 " I have been making some oil-sketches under 
 him, " said Will. " I hate copying. I must put 
 something of my own in. Naumaun has been 
 painting the Saints drawing the Car of the Church, 
 and I have been making a sketch of Marlowe's 
 Tamburlaine Driving the Conquered Kings in his 
 Chariot. I am not so ecclesiastical as Naumann, 
 and I sometimes twit him with his excess of mean- 
 ing. But this time I mean to outdo him in 
 breadth of intention. I take Tamburlaine in his 
 chariot for the tremendous course of the world's 
 physical history lashing on the harnessed dynas- 
 ties. In my opinion, that is a good mythical in- 
 terpretation. " Will here looked at Mr. Casaubon, 
 who received this offhand treatment of symbolism 
 very uneasily, and bowed with a neutral air. 
 
 " The sketch must be very grand, if it conveys 
 so much, " said Dorothea. " I should need some 
 explanation even of the meaning you give. Do 
 you intend Tamburlaine to represent earthquakes 
 and volcanoes ? "
 
 296 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 "Oh, yes," said Will, laughing, "and migra- 
 tions of races and clearings of forests — and Amer- 
 ica, and the steam-engine. Everything you can 
 
 imagine 
 
 " What a difficult kind of shorthand ! " said 
 Dorothea, smiling towards her husband. " It 
 would require all your knowledge to be able to 
 read it. " 
 
 Mr. Casaubon blinked furtively at Will. He 
 had a suspicion that he was being laughed at. 
 But it was not possible to include Dorothea in the 
 suspicion. 
 
 They found Naumann painting industriously, 
 but no model was present ; his pictures were advan- 
 tageously arranged, and his own plain vivacious 
 person set off by a dove-coloured blouse and a 
 maroon velvet cap, so that everything was as for- 
 tunate as if he had expected the beautiful young 
 English lady exactly at that time. 
 
 The painter in his confident English gave little 
 dissertations on his finished and unfinished sub- 
 jects, seeming to observe Mr. Casaubon as much 
 as he did Dorothea. Will burst in here and there 
 with ardent words of praise, marking out particu- 
 lar merits in his friend's work; and Dorothea felt 
 that she was getting quite new notions as to the 
 significance of Madonnas seated under inexplicable 
 canopied thrones with the simple country as a 
 background, and of saints with architectural 
 models in their hands, or knives accidentally 
 wedged in their skulls. Some things which had 
 seemed monstrous to her were gathering intelligi- 
 bility and even a natural meaning ; but all this 
 was apparently a branch of knowledge in which 
 Mr. Casaubon had not interested himself.
 
 OLD AND YOUNG. 297 
 
 * I think I would rather feel that painting is 
 beautiful than have to read it as an enigma; but 
 I should learn to understand these pictures sooner 
 than yours with the very wide meaning," said 
 Dorothea, speaking to Will. 
 
 " Don't speak of my painting before Naumann, " 
 said Will. " He will tell you, it is all pfuscherei, 
 which is his most opprobrious word ! " 
 
 " Is that true ? " said Dorothea, turning her 
 sincere eyes on Naumann, who made a slight gri- 
 mace and said, — 
 
 " Oh, he does not mean it seriously with paint- 
 ing. His walk must be belles-lettres. That is 
 wi-ide. " 
 
 Naumann 's pronunciation of the vowel seemed 
 to stretch the word satirically. Will did not half 
 like it, but managed to laugh ; and Mr. Casaubon, 
 while he felt some disgust at the artist's German 
 accent, began to entertain a little respect for his 
 judicious severity. 
 
 The respect was not diminished when Naumann, 
 nfter drawing Will aside for a moment and looking 
 first at a large canvas, then at Mr. Casaubon, came 
 forward again and said, — 
 
 " My friend Ladislaw thinks you will pardon 
 me, sir, if I say that a sketch of your head would 
 be invaluable to me for the St. Thomas Aquinas in 
 my picture there. It is too much to ask ; but I 
 so seldom see just what I want, — the idealistic in 
 the real. " 
 
 " You astonish me greatly, sir, " said Mr. Casau- 
 bon, his looks improved with a glow of delight ; 
 " but if my poor physiognomy, which I have been 
 accustomed to regard as of the commonest order, 
 can be of any use to you in furnishing some traits
 
 298 MIDDLEMAKCH. 
 
 for the angelical doctor, I shall feel honoured. 
 That is to say, if the operation will not be a 
 lengthy one ; and if Mrs. Casaubon will not object 
 to the delay. " 
 
 As for Dorothea, nothing could have pleased her 
 more, unless it had been a miraculous voice pro- 
 nouncing Mr. Casaubon the wisest and worthiest 
 among the sons of men. In that case her tottering 
 faith would have become firm again. 
 
 Naumann's apparatus was at hand in wonderful 
 completeness, and the sketch went on at once as 
 well as the conversation. Dorothea sat down and 
 subsided into calm silence, feeling happier than 
 she had done for a long while before. Every one 
 about her seemed good, and she said to herself that 
 Eome, if she had only been less ignorant, would 
 have been full of beauty : its sadness would have 
 been winged with hope. No nature could be less 
 suspicious than hers : when she was a child she 
 believed in the gratitude of wasps and the honour- 
 able susceptibility of sparrows, and was proportion- 
 ately indignant when their baseness was made 
 manifest. 
 
 The adroit artist was asking Mr. Casaubon ques- 
 tions about English politics, which brought long 
 answers, and Will meanwhile had perched himself 
 on some steps in the background overlooking all. 
 
 Presently Naumann said, " Now if I could lay 
 this by for half an hour and take it up again — 
 come and look, Ladislaw — I think it is perfect so 
 far. " 
 
 Will vented those adjuring interjections which 
 imply that admiration is too strong for syntax; 
 and Naumann said in a tone of piteous regret, — 
 
 "Ah — now — if I coul 1 but have had more —
 
 OLD AND YOUNG. 299 
 
 but you have other engagements — • I could not ask 
 it — or even to come again to-morrow. " 
 
 " Oh, let us stay ! " said Dorothea. " We have 
 nothing to do to-day except go about, have we ? " 
 she added, looking entreatingly at Mr. Casaubon. 
 " It would be a pity not to make the head as good 
 as possible. " 
 
 " I am at your service, sir, in the matter," said 
 Mr. Casaubon, with polite condescension. " Hav- 
 ing given up the interior of my head to idleness, 
 it is as well that the exterior should work in this 
 way. " 
 
 " You are unspeakably good, — now I am 
 happy ! " said Naumann, and then went on in Ger- 
 man to Will, pointing here and there to the sketch 
 as if he were considering that. Putting it aside 
 for a moment, he looked round vaguely, as if seek- 
 ing some occupation for his visitors, and after- 
 wards turning to Mr. Casaubon, said, — 
 
 " Perhaps the beautiful bride, the gracious lady, 
 would not be unwilling to let me fill up the time 
 by trying to make a slight sketch of her — not, 
 of course, as you see, for that picture — only as a 
 single study. " 
 
 Mr. Casaubon, bowing, doubted not that Mrs. 
 Casaubon would oblige him, and Dorothea said 
 at once, " Where shall I put myself ? " 
 
 Naumann was all apologies in asking her to 
 stand, and allow him to adjust her attitude, to 
 which she submitted without any of the affected 
 airs and laughs frequently thought necessary on 
 such occasions, when the painter said, " It is as 
 Santa Clara that I want you to stand, — leaning so, 
 with your cheek against your hand — so — looking 
 at that stool, please, so ! "
 
 300 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 Will was divided between the inclination to fall 
 at the Saint's feet and kiss her robe, and the 
 temptation to knock iN'aumann down while he was 
 adjusting her arm. All this was impudence and 
 desecration, and he repented that he had brought 
 her. 
 
 The artist was diligent, and Will recovering 
 himself moved about and occupied Mr. Casaubon 
 as ingeniously as he could; but he did not in the 
 end prevent the time from seeming long to that 
 gentleman, as was clear from his expressing a fear 
 that Mrs. Casaubon would be tired. Naumann 
 took the hint and said, — 
 
 " Now, sir, if you can oblige me again, I will 
 release the lady-wife. " 
 
 So Mr Casaubon 's patience held out further, 
 and when after all it turned out that the head of 
 Saint Thomas Aquinas would be more perfect if 
 another sitting could be had, it was granted for 
 the morrow. On the morrow Santa Clara too was 
 retouched more than once. The result of all was 
 so far from displeasing to Mr. Casaubon that he 
 arranged for the purchase of the picture in which 
 Saint Thomas Aquinas sat among the doctors of 
 the Church in a disputation too abstract to be 
 represented, but listened to with more or less 
 attention by an audience alove. The Santa Clara, 
 which was spoken of in the second place, Naumann 
 declared himself to be dissatisfied with, — he could 
 not, in conscience, engage to make a worthy pic- 
 ture of it ; so about the Santa Clara the arrange- 
 ment was conditional. 
 
 I will not dwell on Naumann's jokes at the 
 expense of Mr. Casaubon that evening, or on his 
 dithyrambs about Dorothea's charm, in all which
 
 OLD AND YOUNG. 301 
 
 Will joined, but with a difference. No sooner 
 did Naumanu mention any detail of Dorothea's 
 beauty, than Will got exasperated at his presump- 
 tion : there was grossness in his choice of the most 
 ordinary words, and what business had he to talk 
 of her lips ? She was not a woman to be spoken 
 of as other women were. Will could not say just 
 what he thought, but he became irritable. And 
 yet, when after some resistance he had consented 
 to take the Casaubons to his friend's studio, he 
 had been allured by the gratification of his pride 
 in being the person who could grant Naumann 
 such an opportunity of studying her loveliness, — 
 or rather her divineness, for the ordinary phrases 
 which might apply to mere bodily prettiness were 
 not applicable to her. (Certainly all Tipton and 
 its neighbourhood, as well as Dorothea herself, 
 would have been surprised at her beauty being 
 made so much of. In that part of the world Miss 
 Brooke had been only a " fine young woman. ") 
 
 " Oblige me by letting the subject drop, Nau- 
 mann. Mrs. Casaubon is not to be talked of as if 
 she were a model, ' said Will. Naumann stared 
 at him. 
 
 " Schon ! I will talk of my Aquinas. The head 
 is not a bad type, after all. I dare say the great 
 scholastic himself would have been flattered to 
 have his portrait asked for. Nothing like these 
 starchy doctors for vanity ! It was as I thought : 
 he cared much less for her portrait than his 
 own. " 
 
 " He 's a cursed white-blooded pedantic cox- 
 comb, " said Will, with gnashing impetuosity. 
 His obligations to Mr. Casaubon were not known 
 to his hearer, but Will himself was thinking of
 
 302 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 them, and wishing that he could discharge them 
 all by a check. 
 
 Naumann gave a shrug and said : " It is good 
 they go away soon, my dear. They are spoiling 
 your fine temper. " 
 
 All Will's hope and contrivance were now con- 
 centrated on seeing Dorothea when she was alone. 
 He only wanted her to take more emphatic notice 
 of him ; he only wanted to be something more 
 special in her remembrance than he could yet 
 believe himself likely to be. He was rather impa- 
 tient under that open ardent good-will which he 
 saw was her usual state of feeling. The remote 
 worship of a woman throned out of their reach 
 plays a great part in men's lives, but in most cases 
 the worshipper longs for some queenly recognition, 
 some approving sign by which his soul's sovereign 
 may cheer him without descending from her high 
 place. That was precisely what Will wanted. 
 But there were plenty of contradictions in his 
 imaginative demands. It was beautiful to see 
 how Dorothea's eyes turned with wifely anxiety 
 and beseeching to Mr. Casaubon : she would have 
 lost some of her halo if she had been without that 
 duteous preoccupation ; and yet at the next moment 
 the husband's sandy absorption of such nectar was 
 too intolerable; and Will's longing to say dam- 
 aging things about him was perhaps not the less 
 tormenting because he felt the strongest reasons 
 for restraining it. 
 
 Will had not been invited to dine the next day. 
 Hence he persuaded himself that he was bound to 
 call, and that the only eligible time was the 
 middle of the day, when Mr. Casaubon would not 
 be at home.
 
 OLD AND YOUNG. 303 
 
 Dorothea, who had not been made aware that 
 her former reception of Will had displeased her 
 husband, had no hesitation about seeing him, espe- 
 cially as he might be come to pay a farewell visit. 
 When he entered she was looking at some cameos 
 which she had been buying for Celia. She greeted 
 Will as if his visit were quite a matter of course, 
 and said at once, having a cameo bracelet in her 
 hand, — 
 
 " I am so glad you are come. Perhaps you 
 understand all about cameos, and can tell me if 
 these are really good. I wished to have you with 
 us in choosing them, but Mr. Casaubon objected : 
 he thought there was not time. He will finish 
 his work to-morrow, and we shall go away in three 
 days. I have been uneasy about these cameos. 
 Pray sit down and look at them. " 
 
 " I am not particularly knowing, but there can 
 be no great mistake about these little Homeric 
 bits : they are exquisitely neat. And the colour is 
 fine : it will just suit you. " 
 
 " Oh, they are for my sister, who has quite a 
 different complexion. You saw her with me at 
 Lowick : she is light-haired and very pretty, — at 
 least I think so. We were never so long away 
 from each other in our lives before. She is a great 
 pet, and never was naughty in her life. I found 
 out before I came away that she wanted me to 
 buy her some cameos, and I should be sorry for 
 them not to be good — after their kind. " Dorothea 
 added the last words with a smile. 
 
 " You seem not to care about cameos, " said Will, 
 seating himself at some distance from her, and 
 observing her while she closed the cases. 
 
 " No, frankly, T don't think them a great object 
 in life, " said Dorothea.
 
 304 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 " I fear you are a heretic about art generally. 
 How is that ? I should have expected you to be 
 very sensitive to the beautiful everywhere. " 
 
 " I suppose I am dull about many things, " said 
 Dorothea, simply. " I should like to make life 
 beautiful, —I mean everybody's life. And then 
 all this immense expense of art, that seems some- 
 how to lie outside life and make it no better for 
 the world, pains one. It spoils my enjoyment of 
 anything when I am made to think that most 
 people are shut out from it. " 
 
 " I call that the fanaticism of sympathy, " said 
 Will, impetuously. " You might say the same of 
 landscape, of poetry, of all refinement. If you car- 
 ried it out, you ought to be miserable in your own 
 goodness, and turn evil that you might have no 
 advantage over others. The best piety is to enjoy 
 — when you can. You are doing the most then to 
 save the earth's character as an agreeable planet. 
 An enjoyment radiates. It is of no use to try and 
 take care of all the world ; that is being taken 
 care of when you feel delight, — in art or in any- 
 thing else. Would you turn all the youth of the 
 world into a tragic chorus, wailing and moralizing 
 over misery ? I suspect that you have some false 
 belief in the virtues of misery, and want to make 
 your life a martyrdom. " Will had gone further 
 than he intended, and checked himself. But 
 Dorothea's thought was not taking just the same 
 direction as his own, and she answered without 
 any special emotion, — 
 
 " Indeed you mistake me. I am not a sad, 
 melancholy creature. I am never unhappy long 
 together. I am angry and naughty — not like 
 Celia: I have a great outburst, and then all seems 
 glorious again. I cannot help believing in glorious
 
 OLD AND YOUNG. 305 
 
 things in a blind sort of way. I should be quite 
 willing to enjoy the art here, but there is so much 
 that I don't know the reason of, — so much that 
 seems to me a consecration of ugliness rather than 
 beauty. The painting and sculpture may be won- 
 derful, but the feeling is often low and brutal, and 
 sometimes even ridiculous. Here and there I see 
 what takes me at once as noble, — something that I 
 might compare with the Alban Mountains or the 
 sunset from the Pincian Hill ; but that makes it 
 the greater pity that there is so little of the best 
 kind among all that mass of things over which 
 men have toiled so. " 
 
 " Of course there is always a great deal of poor 
 work : the rarer things want that soil to grow in. " 
 
 " Oh dear, " said Dorothea, taking up that 
 thought into the chief current of her anxiety ; " I 
 see it must be very difficult to do anything good. 
 I have often felt since I have been in Eome that 
 most of our lives would look much uglier and more 
 bungling than the pictures, if they could be put on 
 the wall. " 
 
 Dorothea parted her lips again as if she were 
 going to say more, but changed her mind and 
 paused. 
 
 " You are too young — it is an anachronism for 
 you to have such thoughts," said Will, energeti- 
 cally, with a quick shake of the head habitual to 
 him. " You talk as if you had never known any 
 youth. It is monstrous, — as if you had had a 
 vision of Hades in your childhood, like the boy in 
 the legend. You have been brought up in some of 
 those horrible notions that choose the sweetest 
 women to devour — like Minotaurs. And now you 
 will go and be shut up in that stone prison at 
 
 VOL. I. — 20
 
 3o6 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 Lowick : you will be buried alive. It makes 
 me savage to think of it! I would rather never 
 have seen you than think of you with such a 
 prospect. " 
 
 Will again feared that he had gone too far ; but 
 the meaning we attach to words depends on our 
 feeling, and his tone of angry regret had so much 
 kindness in it for Dorothea's heart, which had 
 always been giving out ardour and had never been 
 fed with much from the living beings around her, 
 that she felt a new sense of gratitude, and answered 
 with a gentle smile, — 
 
 " It is very good of you to be anxious about me. 
 It is because you did not like Lowick yourself : 
 you had set your heart on another kind of life. 
 But Lowick is my chosen home. " 
 
 The last sentence was spoken with an almost 
 solemn cadence, and Will did not know what to 
 say, since it would not be useful for him to embrace 
 her slippers, and tell her that he would die for her : 
 it was clear that she required nothing of the sort ; 
 and they were both silent for a moment or two, 
 when Dorothea began again with an air of saying 
 at last what had been in her mind beforehand. 
 
 " I wanted to ask you again about something you 
 said the other day. Perhaps it was half of it your 
 lively way of speaking : I notice that you like to 
 put things strongly ; I myself often exaggerate 
 when I speak hastily. " 
 
 " What was it ? " said Will, observing that she 
 spoke with a timidity quite new in her. " I have 
 a hyperbolical tongue : it catches fire as it goes. I 
 dare say I shall have to retract. " 
 
 " I mean what you said about the necessity of 
 knowing German — I mean, for the subjects that
 
 OLD AND YOUNG. 307 
 
 Mr. Casaubon is engaged in. I have been thinking 
 about it ; and it seems to me that with Mr. Casau- 
 bon 's learning he must have before him the same 
 materials as German scholars, — has he not ? " 
 Dorothea's timidity v^^as due to an indistinct con- 
 sciousness that she was in the strange situation of 
 consulting a third person about the adequacy of 
 Mr. Casaubon 's learning. 
 
 " Not exactly the same materials, " said Will, 
 thinking that he would be duly reserved. " He 
 is not an Orientalist, you know. . He does not 
 profess to have more than second-hand knowledge 
 there. " 
 
 " But there are very valuable books about antiqui- 
 ties which were written a long while ago by schol- 
 ars who knew nothing about these modern things ; 
 and they are still used. Why should Mr. Casau- 
 bon 's not be valuable, like theirs?" said Doro- 
 thea, with more remonstrant energy. She was 
 impelled to have the argument aloud, which she 
 had been having in her own mind. 
 
 " That depends on the line of study taken, " 
 said Will, also getting a tone of rejoinder. " The 
 subject Mr. Casaubon has chosen is as changing 
 as chemistry : new discoveries are constantly mak- 
 ing new points of view. Who wants a system 
 on the basis of the four elements, or a book to 
 refute Paracelsus ? Do you not see that it is no 
 use now to be crawling a little way after men of 
 the last century — men like Bryant — and correct- 
 ing their mistakes? — living in a lumber-room and 
 furbishing up broken -legged theories about Chus 
 and Mizraim ? " 
 
 " How can you bear to speak so lightly ? " said 
 Dorothea, with a look between sorrow and anger.
 
 3o8 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 " If it were as you say, what could be sadder than 
 so much ardent labour all in vain ? I wonder it 
 does not affect you more painfully, if you really 
 think that a man like Mr. Casaubon, of so much 
 goodness, power, and learning, should in any way 
 fail in what has been the labour of his best years. " 
 She was beginning to be shocked that she had got 
 to such a point of supposition, and indignant with 
 Will for having led her to it. 
 
 " You questioned me about the matter of fact, 
 not of feeling, " said Will. " But if you wish to 
 punish me for the fact, I submit. I am not in a 
 position to express my feeling toward Mr. Casau- 
 bon : it would be at best a pensioner's eulogy." 
 
 "Pray excuse me," said Dorothea, colouring deeply. 
 " I am aware, as you say, that I am in fault in hav- 
 ing introduced the subject. Indeed, I am wrong al- 
 together. Failure after long perseverance is much 
 grander than never to have a striving good enough 
 to be called a failure." 
 
 " I quite agree with you," said Will, determined 
 to change the situation, — " so much so that I have 
 made up my mind not to run that risk of never 
 attaining a failure. Mr. Casaubon's generosity has 
 perhaps been dangerous to me, and I mean to re- 
 nounce the liberty it has given me. I mean to go 
 back to England shortly and work my own way, — 
 depend on nobody else than myself." 
 
 " That is fine, — I respect that feeling," said Doro- 
 thea, with returning kindness. " But Mr. Casaubon, 
 I am sure, has never thought of anything in the 
 matter except what was most for your welfare." 
 
 "She has obstinacy and pride enough to serve in- 
 stead of love, now she has married him," said Will 
 to himself. Aloud he said, rising, —
 
 OLD AND YOUNG. 309 
 
 " I shall not see you again." 
 
 " Oh, stay till Mr. Casaiibon conies," said Doro- 
 thea, earnestly. " I am so glad we met in Eome. 
 I wanted to know you." 
 
 " And I have made you angry," said Will. " I 
 have made you think ill of me." 
 
 " Oh, no. My sister tells me I am always angry 
 with people who do not say just what I like. But 
 I hope I am not given to think ill of them. In the 
 end I am usually obliged to think ill of myself, for 
 being so impatient." 
 
 " Still, you don't like me; I have made myself an 
 unpleasant thought to you." 
 
 " Not at all," said Dorothea, with the most open 
 kindness. " I like you very much." 
 
 Will was not quite contented, thinking that he 
 would apparently have been of more importance if 
 he had been disliked. He said nothing, but looked 
 dull, not to say sulky. 
 
 " And I am quite interested to see what you will 
 do," Dorothea went on cheerfully. " I believe de- 
 voutly in a natural difference of vocation. If it 
 were not for that belief, I suppose I should be very 
 narrow, — there are so many things, besides paint- 
 ing, that I am quite ignorant of. You would hardly 
 believe how little I have taken in of music and liter- 
 ature, which you know so much of. I wonder what 
 your vocation will turn out to be : perhaps you will 
 be a poet ? " 
 
 " That depends. To be a poet is to have a soul 
 so quick to discern that no shade of quality escapes 
 it, and so quick to feel that discernment is but a 
 hand playing with finely ordered variety on the 
 chords of emotion, — a soul in which knowledge 
 passes instantaneously into feeling, and feeling flashes
 
 3IO MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 back as a new organ of knowledge. One may have 
 that condition by fits only." 
 
 " But you leave out the poems," said Dorothea. 
 " I think they are wanted to complete the poet. I 
 understand what you mean about knowledge pass- 
 ing into feeling, for that seems to be just what I 
 experience. But I am sure I could never produce 
 a poem." 
 
 " You are a poem — and that is to be the best 
 part of a poet, — what makes up the poet's con- 
 sciousness in his best moods," said Will, showing 
 such originality as we all share with the morning 
 and the spring-time and other endless renewals. 
 
 " I am very glad to hear it," said Dorothea, laugh- 
 ing out her words in a birdlike modulation, and 
 looking at Will with playful gratitude in her eyes. 
 " What very kind things you say to me ! " 
 
 " I wish I could ever do anything that would be 
 what you call kind, — that I could ever be of the 
 slightest service to you. I fear I shall never have 
 the opportunity." Will spoke with fervour. 
 
 " Oh, yes," said Dorothea, cordially. " It will 
 come ; and I shall remember how well you wish 
 me. I quite hoped that we should be friends when 
 I first saw you — because of your relationship to 
 Mr. Casaubon." There was a certain liquid bright- 
 ness in her eyes, and Will was conscious that his 
 own were obeying a law of nature and filling too. 
 The allusion to Mr. Casaubon would have spoiled 
 all if anything at that moment could have spoiled 
 the subduing power, the sweet dignity, of her noble 
 unsuspicious inexperience. 
 
 " And there is one thing even now that you can 
 do," said Dorothea, rising and walking a httle way 
 under the strength of a recurring impulse. " Prom-
 
 OLD AND YOUNG, 311 
 
 ise me that you will not again, to any one, speak of 
 that subject — I mean about Mr. Casaubon's writ- 
 ings — I mean in that kind of way. It was I who 
 led to it. It was my fault. But promise me." 
 
 She had returned from her brief pacing, and stood 
 opposite Will, looking gravely at him. 
 
 " Certainly, I will promise you," said Will, red- 
 dening however. If he never said a cutting word 
 about Mr. Casaubon again and left off receiving 
 favours from him, it would clearly be permissible to 
 hate him the more. The poet must know how to 
 hate, says Goethe ; and Will was at least ready with 
 that accomplishment. He said that he must go 
 now without waiting for Mr. Casaubon, whom he 
 would come to take leave of at the last moment. 
 Dorothea gave him her hand, and they exchanged 
 a simple "Good-by." 
 
 But going out of the porte cochere he met Mr. 
 Casaubon ; and that gentleman, expressing the best 
 wishes for his cousin, politely waived the pleasure 
 of any further leave-taking on the morrow, which 
 would be sufficiently crowded with the preparations 
 for departure. 
 
 " I have something to tell you about our cousin 
 Mr. Ladislaw, which I think will heighten your 
 opinion of him," said Dorothea to her husband in 
 the course of the evening. She had mentioned 
 immediately on his entering that Will had just gone 
 away, and would come again ; but Mr. Casaubon had 
 said, "I met him outside, and we made our final 
 adieux, I believe," saying this with the air and tone 
 by which we imply that any subject, whether pri- 
 vate or public, does not interest us enough to wish 
 for a further remark upon it. So Dorothea had 
 waited.
 
 312 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 " What is that, my love ? " said Mr. Casaubon (he 
 always said " my love " when his manner was the 
 coldest). 
 
 " He has made up his mind to leave off wander- 
 ing at once, and to give up his dependence on your 
 generosity. He means soon to go back to England, 
 and work his own way. I thought you would con- 
 sider that a good sign," said Dorothea, with an 
 appealing look into her husband's neutral face. 
 
 " Did he mention the precise order of occupation 
 to which he would addict himself ? " 
 
 " No. But he said that he felt the danger which 
 lay for him in your generosity. Of course he will 
 write to you about it. Do you not think better of 
 him for his resolve ? " 
 
 " I shall await his communication on the subject," 
 said Mr. Casaubon. 
 
 " I told him I was sure that the thing you con- 
 sidered in all you did for him was his own welfare. 
 I remembered your goodness in what you said about 
 him when I first saw him at Lowick," said Doro- 
 thea, putting her hand on her husband's. 
 
 "I had a duty towards him," said Mr. Casaubon, 
 laying his other hand on Dorothea's in conscien- 
 tious acceptance of her caress, but with a glance 
 which he could not hinder from being uneasy. 
 "The young man, I confess, is not otherwise an 
 object of interest to me, nor need we, I think, dis- 
 cuss his future course, which it is not ours to deter- 
 mine beyond the limits which I have sufficiently 
 indicated." 
 
 Dorothea did not mention Will again.
 
 BOOK m. 
 
 WAITING FOR DEATH. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 " ' Your horses of the Sun,' he said, 
 ' And first-rate whip Apollo ! 
 Whate'er tliev be, I '11 eat my head. 
 But I will beat them hollow.' " 
 
 Fred Vincy, we have seen, had a debt on his mind, 
 and though no such immaterial burthen could de- 
 press that buoyant-hearted young gentleman for 
 many hours together, there were circumstances con- 
 nected with this debt which made the thought of it 
 unusually importunate. The creditor was Mr. Bam- 
 bridge, a horse-dealer of the neighbourhood, whose 
 company was much sought in Middlemarch by young 
 men understood to be " addicted to pleasure." Dur- 
 ing the vacations Fred had naturally required more 
 amusements than he had ready money for, and Mr. 
 Bambridge had been accommodating enough not only 
 to trust him for the hire of horses and the acciden- 
 tal expense of ruining a fine hunter, but also to 
 make a small advance by which he might be able 
 to meet some losses at billiards. The total debt 
 was a hundred and sixty pounds. Bambridge was 
 in no alarm about his money, being sure that young 
 Vincy had backers : but he had required something 
 to show for it, and Fred had at first given a bill
 
 314 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 with his own signature. Three months later he had 
 renewed this hill with the signature of Caleb Garth. 
 On both occasions Fred had felt confident that he 
 should meet the bill himself, having ample funds at 
 disposal in his own hopefulness. You will hardly 
 demand that his confidence should have a basis in 
 external facts ; such confidence, we know, is some- 
 thing less coarse and materialistic: it is a com- 
 fortable disposition leading us to expect that the 
 wisdom of providence or the folly of our friends, the 
 mysteries of luck or the still greater mystery of 
 our high individual value in the universe, will bring 
 about agreeable issues, such as are consistent with 
 our good taste in costume, and our general prefer- 
 ence for the best style of thing. Fred felt sure 
 that he should have a present from his uncle, that 
 he should have a run of luck, that by dint of " swap- 
 ping " he should gradually metamorphose a horse 
 worth forty pounds into a horse that would fetch 
 a hundred at any moment, — " judgment " being al- 
 ways equivalent to an unspecified sum in hard cash. 
 And in any case, even supposing negations which 
 only a morbid distrust could imagine, Fred had 
 always (at that time) his father's pocket as a last 
 resource, so that his assets of hopefulness had a sort 
 of gorgeous superfluity about them. Of what might 
 be the capacity of his father's pocket, Fred had only 
 a vague notion : was not trade elastic ? And would 
 not the deficiencies of one year be made up for by 
 the surplus of another ? The Vincys lived in an 
 easy profuse way, not with any new ostentation, but 
 according to the family habits and traditions, so 
 that the children had no standard of economy, and 
 the elder ones retained some of their infantine notion 
 that their father might pay for anything if he would.
 
 WAITING FOR DEATH. 315 
 
 Mr. Vincy himself had expensive Middlemarch hab- 
 its, — spent money on coursing, on his cellar, and on 
 dinner-giving, — while mamma had those running 
 accounts with tradespeople which give a cheerful 
 sense of getting everything one wants without any 
 question of payment. But it was in the nature of 
 fathers, Fred knew, to bully one about expenses : 
 there was always a little storm over his extravagance 
 if he had to disclose a debt, and Fred disliked bad 
 weather within doors. He was too filial to be dis- 
 respectful to his father, and he bore the thunder 
 with the certainty that it was transient; but in the 
 mean time it was disagreeable to see his mother cry, 
 and also to be obliged to look sulky instead of hav- 
 ing fun ; for Fred was so good-tempered that if he 
 looked glum under scolding, it was chiefly for pro- 
 priety's sake. The easier course, plainly, was to re- 
 new the bill with a friend's signature. Why not ? 
 With the superfluous securities of hope at his com- 
 mand, there was no reason why he should not have 
 increased other people's liabilities to any extent, but 
 for the fact that men whose names were good for 
 anything were usually pessimists indisposed to be- 
 lieve that the universal order of things would neces- 
 sarily be agreeable to an agreeable young gentleman. 
 With a favour to ask we review our list of friends, 
 do justice to their more amiable qualities, forgive 
 their little offences, and concerning each in turn, 
 try to arrive at the conclusion that he will be eager 
 to oblige us, our own eagerness to be obliged being 
 as communicable as other warmth. Still there is 
 always a certain number who are dismissed as but 
 moderately eager until the others have refused ; and 
 it happened that Fred checked off all his friends but 
 one, on the ground that applying to them would be
 
 3i6 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 disagreeable ; being implicitly convinced that he at 
 least (whatever might be maintained about mankind 
 generally) had a right to be free from anything dis- 
 agreeable. That he should ever fall into a thor- 
 oughly unpleasant position — wear trousers shrunk 
 with washing, eat cold mutton, have to walk for 
 want of a horse, or to " duck under " in any sort of 
 way — was an absurdity irreconcilable with those 
 cheerful intuitions implanted in him by nature. 
 And Fred winced under the idea of being looked 
 down upon as wanting funds for small debts. Thus 
 it came to pass that the friend whom he chose to 
 apply to was at once the poorest and the kindest, — 
 namely, Caleb Garth. 
 
 The Garths were very fond of Fred, as he was of 
 them ; for when he and Eosamond were little ones, 
 and the Garths were better off, the slight connection 
 between the two families through Mr. Featherstone's 
 double marriage (the first to Mr. Garth's sister, and 
 the second to Mrs. Vincy's) had led to an acquaint- 
 ance which was carried on between the children 
 rather than the parents : the children drank tea 
 together out of their toy teacups, and spent whole 
 days together in play. Mary was a little hoyden, 
 and Fred at six years old thought her the nicest 
 girl in the world, making her his wife with a brass 
 ring which he had cut from an umbrella. Through 
 all the stages of his education he had kept his affec- 
 tion for the Garths, and his habit of going to their 
 house as a second home, though any intercourse 
 between them and the elders of his family had long 
 ceased. Even when Caleb Garth was prosperous, 
 the Vincys were on condescending terms with him 
 and his wife, for there were nice distinctions of rank 
 in Middlemarch ; and though old manufacturers
 
 WAITING FOR DEATH. 317 
 
 could not any more than dukes be connected with 
 none but equals, they were conscious of an inherent 
 social superiority which was defined with great 
 nicety in practice, though hardly expressible theo- 
 retically. Since then Mr. Garth had failed in the 
 building business, which he had unfortunately added 
 to his other avocations of surveyor, valuer, and 
 agent, had conducted that business for a time 
 entirely for the benefit of his assignees, and had 
 been living narrowly, exerting himself to the utmost 
 that he might after all pay twenty shillings in the 
 pound. He had now achieved this, and from all 
 who did not think it a bad precedent, his honourable 
 exertions had won him due esteem ; but in no part 
 of the world is genteel visiting founded on esteem, 
 in the absence of suitable furniture and complete 
 dinner-service. Mrs. Vincy had never been at her 
 ease with Mrs. Garth, and frequently spoke of her 
 as a woman who had had to work for her bread, — 
 meaning that Mrs. Garth had been a teacher before 
 her marriage ; in which case an intimacy with 
 Lindley Murray and Mangnall's Questions was 
 something like a draper's discrimination of calico 
 trademarks, or a courier's acquaintance with foreign 
 countries : no woman who was better off needed 
 that sort of thing. And since Mary had been keep- 
 ing Mr. Featherstone's house, Mrs. Vincy's want 
 of liking for the Garths had been converted into 
 something more positive, by alarm lest Fred should 
 engage himself to this plain girl, whose parents 
 " lived in such a small way." Fred, being aware of 
 this, never spoke at home of his visits to Mrs. Garth, 
 which had of late become more frequent, the increas- 
 ing ardour of his affection for Mary inclining him 
 the more towards those who belonged to her.
 
 3i8 rnDBLEMAHCH. 
 
 Mr. Garth had a small office in the town, and to 
 this Fred went with his request. He obtained it 
 without much difficulty, for a large amount of pain- 
 ful experience had not sufficed to make Caleb Garth 
 cautious about his own affairs, or distrustful of his 
 fellow-men when they had not proved themselves 
 untrustworthy ; and he had the highest opinion of 
 Fred, was " sure the lad would turn out well, — an 
 open affectionate fellow, with a good bottom to his 
 character, — you might trust him for anything." 
 Such was Caleb's psychological argument. He was 
 one of those rare men who are rigid to themselves 
 and indulgent to others. He had a certain shame 
 about his neighbours' errors, and never spoke of 
 them willingly ; hence he was not likely to divert 
 his mind from the best mode of hardening timber 
 and other ingenious devices in order to preconceive 
 those errors. If he had to blame any one, it was 
 necessary for him to move all the papers within his 
 reach, or describe various diagrams with his stick, 
 or make calculations with the odd money in his 
 pocket, before he could begin ; and he would rather 
 do other men's work than find fault with their 
 doing. I fear he was a bad disciplinarian. 
 
 When Fred stated the circumstances of his debt, 
 his wish to meet it without troubling his father, 
 and the certainty that the money would be forth- 
 coming so as to cause no one any inconvenience, 
 Caleb pushed his spectacles upward, listened, looked 
 into his favourite's clear young eyes, and believed 
 him, not distinguishing confidence about the future 
 from veracity about the past ; but he felt that it 
 was an occasion for a friendly hint as to conduct, 
 and that before giving his signature he must give a 
 rather strong admonition. Accordingly, he took
 
 WAITING FOR DEATH. 319 
 
 the paper and lowered his spectacles, measured the 
 space at his command, reached his pen and exam- 
 ined it, dipped it in the ink and examined it again, 
 then pushed the paper a little way from him, lifted 
 up his spectacles again, showed a deepened depres- 
 sion in the outer angle of his bushy eyebrows, 
 which gave his face a peculiar mildness (pardon 
 these details for once, — you would have learned to 
 love them if you had known Caleb Garth), and said 
 in a comfortable tone, — 
 
 "It was a misfortune, eh, that breaking the 
 horse's knees? And then, these exchanges, they 
 don't answer when you have 'cute jockeys to deal 
 with. You '11 be wiser another time, my boy." 
 
 Whereupon Caleb drew down his spectacles, and 
 proceeded to write his signature with the care which 
 he always gave to that performance ; for whatever 
 he did in the way of business he did well. He con- 
 templated the large well-proportioned letters and 
 final flourish, with his head a trifle on one side for 
 an instant, then handed it to Fred, said " Good-by," 
 and returned forthwith to his absorption in a plan 
 for Sir James Chettam's new farm-buildings. 
 
 Either because his interest in this work thrust 
 the incident of the signature from his memory, or 
 for some reason of which Caleb was more conscious, 
 Mrs. Garth remained ignorant of the affair. 
 
 Since it occurred, a change had come over Fred's 
 sky, which altered his view of the distance, and was 
 the reason why his uncle Featherstone's present of 
 money was of importance enough to make his colour 
 come and go, first with a too definite expectation, 
 and afterwards with a proportionate disappointment. 
 His failure in passing his examination had made 
 his accumulation of college debts the more unpar-
 
 320 MIDDLEMAECH. 
 
 donable by his father, and there had been an unprece- 
 dented storm at home. Mr. Vincy had sworn that 
 if he had anything more of that sort to put up with, 
 Fred should turn out and get his living how he 
 could ; and he had never yet quite recovered his 
 good-humoured tone to his son, who had especially 
 enraged him by saying at this stage of things that 
 he did not want to be a clergyman, and would 
 rather not " go on with that " Fred was conscious 
 that he would have been yet more severely dealt 
 with if his family as well as himself had not secretly 
 regarded him as Mr. Featherstone's heir; that old 
 gentleman's pride in him, and apparent fondness for 
 him, serving in the stead of more exemplary con- 
 duct, — just as when a youthful nobleman steals 
 jewellery we call the act kleptomania, speak of it 
 with a philosophical smile, and never think of his 
 being sent to the house of correction as if he were a 
 ragged boy who had stolen turnips. In fact, tacit 
 expectations of what would be done for him by 
 Uncle Featherstone determined the angle at which 
 most people viewed Fred Vincy in Middlemarch ; 
 and in his own consciousness, what Uncle Feather- 
 stone would do for him in an emergency, or what 
 he would do simply as an incorporated luck, formed 
 always an immeasurable depth of aerial perspective. 
 But that present of bank-notes, once made, was 
 measurable, and being applied to the amount of the 
 debt, showed a deficit which had still to be filled up 
 either by Fred's "judgment" or by luck in some 
 other shape. For that little episode of the alleged 
 borrowing, in which he had made his father the 
 agent in getting the Bulstrode certificate, was a new 
 reason against going to his father for money towards 
 meeting his actual debt. Fred was keen enough to
 
 WAITING FOR DEATH. 321 
 
 foresee that anger would confuse distinctions, and 
 that his denial of having borrowed expressly on the 
 strength of his uncle's will would be taken as a 
 falsehood. He had gone to his father and told hirn 
 one vexatious affair, and he had left another untold: 
 in such cases the complete revelation always pro- 
 duces the impression of a previous duplicity. Now 
 Fred piqued himself on keeping clear of lies, and 
 even fibs ; he often shrugged his shoulders and 
 made a significant grimace at what he called Eosa- 
 mond's fibs (it is only brothers who can associate 
 such ideas with a lovely girl) ; and rather than 
 incur the accusation of falsehood he would even 
 incur some trouble and self-restraint. It was under 
 strong inward pressure of this kind that Fred had 
 taken the wise step of depositing the eighty pounds 
 with his mother. It was a pity that he had not at 
 once given them to Mr. Garth ; but he meant to 
 make the sum complete with another sixty, and 
 with a view to this, he had kept twenty pounds in 
 his own pocket as a sort of seed-corn, which, planted 
 by judgment and watered by luck, might yield more 
 than threefold, — a very poor rate of multiplication 
 when the field is a young gentleman's infinite soul, 
 with all the numerals at command. 
 
 Fred was not a gambler : he had not that specific 
 disease in which the suspension of the whole ner- 
 vous energy on a chance or risk becomes as neces- 
 sary as the dram to the drunkard ; he had only the 
 tendency to that diffusive form of gambling which 
 has no alcoholic intensity, but is carried on with 
 the healthiest chyle-fed blood, keeping up a joyous 
 imaginative activity which fashions events accord- 
 ing to desire, and having no fears about its own 
 weather, only sees the advantage there must be to 
 
 VOL. I. 21
 
 322 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 others in going aboard with it. Hopefulness has a 
 pleasure in making a throw of any kind, because the 
 prospect of success is certain ; and only a more gen- 
 erous pleasure in offering as many as possible a 
 share in the stake. Fred liked play, especially bil- 
 liards, as he liked hunting or riding a steeple-chase ; 
 and he only liked it the better because he wanted 
 money and hoped to win. But the twenty pounds' 
 worth of seed-corn had been planted in vain in the 
 seductive green plot, — all of it at least which had 
 not been dispersed by the roadside, — and Fred found 
 himself close upon the term of payment, with no 
 money at command beyond the eighty pounds which 
 he had deposited with his mother. The broken- 
 winded horse which he rode represented a present 
 which had been made to him a long while ago by 
 his uncle Featherstone : his father always allowed 
 him to keep a horse, Mr. Vincy's own habits making 
 him regard this as a reasonable demand even for a 
 son who was rather exasperating. This horse, then, 
 was Fred's property, and in his anxiety to meet the 
 imminent bill he determined to sacrifice a possession 
 without which life would certainly be worth little. 
 He made the resolution with a sense of heroism, — 
 heroism forced on him by the dread of breaking his 
 word to Mr. Garth, by his love for Mary and awe 
 of her opinion. He would start for Houudsley 
 horse-fair which was to be held the next morning, 
 and — simply sell his horse, bringing back the 
 money by coach ? — Well, the horse would hardly 
 fetch more than thirty pounds, and there was no 
 knowing what might happen ; it would be folly to 
 balk himself of luck beforehand. It was a hundred 
 to one that some good chance would fall in his way ; 
 the longer he thought of it, the less possible it seemed
 
 WAITING FOR DEATH. 323 
 
 that he should not have a good chance, and the less 
 reasonable that he should not equip himself with 
 the powder and shot for bringing it down. He 
 would ride to Houndsley with Bambridge and with 
 Horrock " the vet," and without asking them any- 
 thing expressly, he should virtually get the benefit 
 of their opinion. Before he set out, Fred got the 
 eighty pounds from his mother. 
 
 Most of those who saw Fred riding out of 
 Middlemarch in company with Bambridge and 
 Horrock, on his way of course to Houndsley horse- 
 fair, thought that young Vincy was pleasure-seeking 
 as usual ; and but for an unwonted consciousness 
 of grave matters on hand, he himself would have 
 had a sense of dissipation, and of doing what 
 might be expected of a gay young fellow. Consid- 
 ering that Fred was not at all coarse, that he 
 rather looked down on the manners and speech of 
 young men who had not been to the university, and 
 that he had written stanzas as pastoral and unvo- 
 luptuous as his flute-playing, his attraction towards 
 Bambridge and Horrock was an interesting fact 
 which even the love of horse-flesh would not 
 wholly account for without that mysterious influ- 
 ence of Naming which determinates so much of 
 mortal choice. Under any other name than 
 " pleasure " the society of Messieurs Bambridge 
 and Horrock must certainly have been regarded as 
 monotonous ; and to arrive with them at Houndsley 
 on a drizzling afternoon, to get down at the Eed 
 Lion in a street shaded with coal-dust, and dine 
 in a room furnished with a dirt-enamelled map of 
 the county, a bad portrait of an anonymous horse 
 in a stable. His Majesty George the Fourth with 
 legs and cravat, and various leaden spittoons,
 
 324 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 might have seemed a hard business, but for the 
 sustaining power of nomenclature which deter- 
 mined that the pursuit of these things was " gay. " 
 
 In Mr. Horrock there was certainly an apparent 
 unfathomableness which offered play to the imagi- 
 nation. Costume, at a glance, gave him a thrilling 
 association with horses (enough to specify the hat- 
 brim which took the slightest upward angle just 
 to escape the suspicion of bending downwards), and 
 nature had given him a face which by dint of 
 Mongolian eyes, and a nose, mouth, and chin 
 seeming to follow his hat-brim in a moderate incli- 
 nation upwards, gave the effect of a subdued, 
 unchangeable, sceptical smile, of all expressions 
 the most tyrannous over a susceptible mind, and, 
 when accompanied by adequate silence, likely to 
 create the reputation of an invincible understand- 
 ing, an infinite fund of humour, — too dry to flow, 
 and probably in a state of immovable crust, — and 
 a critical judgment which, if you could ever be 
 fortunate enough to know it, would be the thing 
 and no other. It is a physiognomy seen in all 
 vocations, but perhaps it has never been more 
 powerful over the youth of England than in a 
 judge of horses. 
 
 Mr. Horrock, at a question from Fred about his 
 horse's fetlock, turned sideways in his saddle, and 
 watched the horse's action for the space of three 
 minutes, then turned forward, twitched his own 
 bridle, and remained silent with a profile neither 
 more nor less sceptical than it had been. 
 
 The part thus played in dialogue by Mr. Hor- 
 rock was terribly effective. A mixture of pas- 
 sions was excited in Fred, — a mad desire to thrash 
 Horrock 's opinion into utterance, restrained by
 
 WAITING FOR DEATH. 325 
 
 anxiety to retain the advantage of his friend- 
 ship. There was always the chance that Horrock 
 might say something quite invaluable at the right 
 moment. 
 
 Mr. Bambridge had more open manners, and 
 appeared to give forth his ideas without economy. 
 He was loud, robust, and was sometimes spoken 
 of as being " given to indulgence, " — chiefly in 
 swearing, drinking, and beating his wife. Some 
 people who had lost by him called him a vicious 
 man ; but he regarded horse-dealing as the finest of 
 the arts, and might have argued plausibly that it 
 had nothing to do with morality. He was undeni- 
 ably a prosperous man, bore his drinking better 
 than others bore their moderation, and, on the 
 whole, flourished like the green bay- tree. But his 
 range of conversation was limited, and like the fine 
 old tune, " Drops of brandy, " gave you after a 
 while a sense of returning upon itself in a way that 
 might make weak heads dizzy. But a slight infu- 
 sion of Mr. Bambridge was felt to give tone and 
 character to several circles in Middlemarch ; and 
 he was a distinguished figure in the bar and 
 billiard-room at the Green Dragon. He knew 
 some anecdotes about the heroes of the turf, and 
 various clever tricks of Marquesses and Viscounts 
 which seemed to prove that blood asserted its pre- 
 eminence even among blacklegs ; but the minute 
 retentiveness of his memory was chiefly shown 
 about the horses he had himself bought and sold ; 
 the number of miles they would trot you in no 
 time without turning a hair being, after the lapse 
 of years, still a subject of passionate asseveration, 
 in which he would assist the imagination of his 
 hearers by solemnly swearing that they never saw
 
 326 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 anything like it. In short, Mr. Bambridge was a 
 man of pleasure and a gay companion. 
 
 Fred was subtle, and did not tell his friends 
 that he was going to Houndsley bent on selling 
 his horse : he wished to get indirectly at their 
 genuine opinion of its value, not being aware that 
 a genuine opinion was the last thing likely to be 
 extracted from such eminent critics. It was not 
 Mr. Bambridge 's weakness to be a gratuitous 
 flatterer. He had never before been so much 
 struck with the fact that this unfortunate bay was 
 a roarer to a degree which required the roundest 
 word for perdition to give you any idea of it. 
 
 " You made a bad hand at swapping when you 
 went to anybody but me, Vincy ! Why, you never 
 threw your leg across a finer horse than that chest- 
 nut, and you gave him for this brute. If you set 
 him cantering, he goes on like twenty sawyers. I 
 never heard but one worse roarer in my life, and 
 that was a roan : it belonged to Pegwell, the corn- 
 fa,ctor ; he used to drive him in his gig seven years 
 ago, and he wanted me to take him, but I said, 
 ' Thank you, Peg, I don't deal in wind-instru- 
 ments. ' That was what I said. It went the round 
 of the country, that joke did. But, what the 
 hell ! the horse was a penny trumpet to that roarer 
 of yours. " 
 
 " Why, you said just now his was worse than 
 mine," said Fred, more irritable than usual. 
 
 "I said a lie, then," said Mr. Bambridge, 
 emphatically. "There wasn't a penny to choose 
 between 'em. " 
 
 Fred spurred his horse, and they trotted on a 
 little way. When they slackened again, Mr. Bam- 
 bridge said, —
 
 WAITING FOR DEATH. i2f 
 
 ** Not but what the roan was a better trotter than 
 yours. " 
 
 " I 'm quite satisfied with his paces, I know, " 
 said Fred, who required all the consciousness of 
 being in gay company to support him ; " I say his 
 trot is an uncommonly clean one, eh, Horrock ? " 
 
 Mr. Horrock looked before him with as complete 
 a neutrality as if he had been a portrait by a great 
 master. 
 
 Fred gave up the fallacious hope of getting a 
 genuine opinion ; but on reflection he saw that 
 Bambridge's depreciation and Horrock 's silence 
 were both virtually encouraging, and indicated that 
 they thought better of the horse than they chose 
 to say. 
 
 That very evening, indeed, before the fair had set 
 in, Fred thought he saw a favourable opening for 
 disposing advantageously of his horse, but an open- 
 ing which made him congratulate himself on his 
 foresight in bringing with him his eighty pounds. 
 A young farmer, acquainted with Mr. Bambridge, 
 came into the Eed Lion, and entered into conver- 
 sation about parting with a hunter, which he 
 introduced at once as Diamond, implying that it 
 was a public character. For himself he only 
 wanted a useful hack, which would draw upon 
 occasion ; being about to marry and to give up 
 hunting. The hunter was in a friend's stable at 
 some little distance ; there was still time for gen- 
 tlemen to see it before dark. The friend's stable 
 had to be reached through a back street where 
 you might as easily have been poisoned without 
 expense of drugs as in any grim street of that 
 unsanitary period. Fred was not fortified against 
 disgust by brandy, as his companions were, but
 
 32.8 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 the hope of having at last seen the horse that would 
 enable him to make money was exhilarating 
 enough to lead him over the same ground again the 
 first thing in the morning. He felt sure that if 
 he did not come to a bargain with the farmer, 
 Bambridge would ; for the stress of circumstances, 
 Fred felt, was sharpening his acuteness, and en- 
 dowing him with all the constructive power of 
 suspicion. Bambridge had run down Diamond in 
 a way that he never would have done (the horse 
 being a friend's) if he had not thought of buying 
 it ; every one who looked at the animal — even 
 Horrock — was evidently impressed with its merit. 
 To get all the advantage of being with men of this 
 sort, you must know how to draw your inferences, 
 and not be a spoon who takes things literally. 
 The colour of the horse was a dappled gray, and 
 Fred happened to know that Lord Medlicote's man 
 was on the look-out for just such a horse. After 
 all his running down, Bambridge let it out in the 
 course of the evening, when the farmer was absent, 
 that he had seen worse horses go for eighty pounds. 
 Of course he contradicted himself twenty times 
 over, but when you know what is likely to be true 
 you can test a man's admissions. And Fred 
 could not but reckon his own judgment of a horse 
 as worth something. The farmer had paused over 
 Fred's respectable though broken-winded steed 
 long enough to show that he thought it worth 
 consideration, and it seemed probable that he 
 would take it, with five-and-twenty pounds in 
 addition, as the equivalent of Diamond. In that 
 case Fred, when he had parted with his new horse 
 for at least eighty pounds, would be fifty-five 
 pounds in pocket by the transaction, and would
 
 WAITING FOR DEATH. 329 
 
 have a hundred and thirty-five pounds towards 
 meeting the bill; so that the deficit temporarily 
 thrown on Mr. Garth would at the utmost be 
 twenty-five pounds. By the time he was hurrying 
 on his clothes in the morning, he saw so clearly 
 the importance of not losing this rare chance, that 
 if Bambridge and Horrock had both dissuaded 
 him, he would not have been deluded into a direct 
 interpretation of their purpose : he would have 
 been aware that those deep hands held something 
 else than a young fellow's interest. With regard 
 to horses, distrust was your only clew. But scep- 
 ticism, as we know, can never be thoroughly 
 applied, else life would come to a standstill : 
 something we must believe in and do, and what- 
 ever that something may be called, it is virtually 
 our own judgment, even when it seems like the 
 most slavish reliance on another. Fred believed 
 in the excellence of his bargain, and even before 
 the fair had well set in, had got possession of the 
 dappled gray, at the price of his old horse and 
 thirty pounds in addition, — only five pounds more 
 than he had expected to give. 
 
 But he felt a little worried and wearied, perhaps 
 with mental debate ; and without waiting for the 
 further gayeties of the horse -fair, he set out alone 
 on his fourteen miles' journey, meaning to take 
 it very quietly and keep his horse fresh.
 
 CHAPTEE XXIV. 
 
 The offender's sorrow brings but small relief 
 To him who wears the strong offence's cross. 
 
 Shakespeare : Sonnets. 
 
 I AM sorry to say that only the third day after the 
 propitious events at Houndsley Fred Vincy had 
 fallen into worse spirits than he had known in his 
 life before. Not that he had been disappointed 
 as to the possible market for his horse, but that 
 before the bargain could be concluded with Lord 
 Medlicote's man, this Diamond, in which hope to 
 the amount of eighty pounds had been invested, 
 had without the slightest warning exhibited in 
 the stable a most vicious energy in kicking, had 
 just missed killing the groom, and had ended in 
 laming himself severely by catching his leg in a 
 rope that overhung the stable-board. There was 
 no more redress for this than for the discovery of 
 bad temper after marriage, — which of course old 
 companions were aware of before the ceremony. 
 For some reason or other, Fred had none of his 
 usual elasticity under this stroke of ill-fortune : he 
 was simply aware that he had only fifty pounds, 
 that there was no chance of his getting any more 
 at present, and that the bill for a hundred and 
 sixty would be presented in five days. Even if he 
 had applied to his father on the plea that Mr. 
 Garth should be saved from loss, Fred felt smart- 
 ingly that his father would angrily refuse to rescue 
 Mr. Garth from the consequence of what he would
 
 WAITING FOR DEATH. 331 
 
 call encouraging extravagance and deceit. He was 
 so utterly downcast that he could frame no other 
 project than to go straight to Mr. Garth and tell 
 him the sad truth, carrying with him the fifty 
 pounds, and getting that sum at least safely out of 
 his own hands. His father, being at the ware- 
 house, did not yet know of the accident : when he 
 did, he would storm about the vicious brute being 
 brought into his stable ; and before meeting that 
 lesser annoyance Fred wanted to get away with all 
 his courage to face the greater. He took his 
 father's nag, for he had made up his' mind that 
 when he had told Mr. Garth, he would ride to 
 Stone Court and confess all to Mary. In fact, it 
 is probable that but for Mary's existence and Fred's 
 love for her, his conscience would have been much 
 less active, both in previously urging the debt on 
 his thought, and impelling him not to spare him- 
 self after his usual fashion by deferring an unpleas- 
 ant task, but to act as directly and simply as he 
 could. Even much stronger mortals than Fred 
 Vincy hold half their rectitude in the mind of 
 the being they love best. " The theatre of all my 
 actions is fallen, " said an antique personage when 
 his chief friend was dead ; and they are fortunate 
 who get a theatre where the audience demands 
 their best. Certainly it would have made a con- 
 siderable difference to Fred at that time if Mary 
 Garth had had no decided notions as to what was 
 admirable in character. 
 
 Mr. Garth was not at the office, and Fred rode 
 on to his house, which was a little way outside 
 the town, — a homely place with an orchard in 
 front of it, a rambling, old-fashioned, half-tim- 
 bered building, which before the town had spread
 
 332 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 had been a farm-house, but was now surrounded 
 with the private gardens of the townsmen. We 
 get the fonder of our houses if they have a physi- 
 ognomy of their own, as our friends have. The 
 Garth family, which was rather a large one, for 
 Mary had four brothers and one sister, were very 
 fond of their old house, from which all the best 
 furniture had long been sold. Fred liked it too, 
 knowing it by heart even to the attic, which smelt 
 deliciously of apples and quinces, and until to-day 
 he had never come to it without pleasant expecta- 
 tions ; but his heart beat uneasily now with the 
 sense that he should probably have to make his 
 confession before Mrs. Garth, of whom he was 
 rather more in awe than of her husband. Not that 
 she was inclined to sarcasm and to impulsive 
 sallies, as Mary was. In her present matronly 
 age at least, Mrs. Garth never committed herself 
 by over-hasty speech ; having, as she said, borne 
 the yoke in her youth, and learned self-control. 
 She had that rare sense which discerns what is 
 unalterable, and submits to it without murmuring. 
 Adoring her husband's virtues, she had very early 
 made up her mind to his incapacity of minding his 
 own interests, and had met the consequences cheer- 
 fully. She had been magnanimous enough to 
 renounce all pride in teapots or children's frilling, 
 and had never poured any pathetic confidences into 
 the ears of her feminine neighbours concerning 
 Mr. Garth's want of prudence and the sums he 
 might have had if he had been like other men. 
 Hence these fair neighbours thought her either 
 proud or eccentric, and sometimes spoke of her to 
 their husbands as " your fine Mrs. Garth. " She 
 was not without her criticism of them in return,
 
 WAITING FOR DEATH. 333 
 
 being more accurately instructed than most matrons 
 in Middlemarch, and — where is the blameless 
 woman ? — apt to be a little severe towards her 
 own sex, which in her opinion was framed to be 
 entirely subordinate. On the other hand, she was 
 disproportionately indulgent towards the failings 
 of men, and was often heard to say that these were 
 natural. Also, it must be admitted that Mrs. 
 Garth was a trifle too emphatic in her resistance to 
 what she held to be follies : the passage from gov- 
 erness into housewife had wrought itself a little 
 too strongly into her consciousness, and she rarely 
 forgot that while her grammar and accent were 
 above the town standard, she wore a plain cap, 
 cooked the family dinner, and darned all the stock- 
 ings. She had sometimes taken pupils in a peri- 
 patetic fashion, making them follow her about in 
 the kitchen with their book or slate. She thought 
 it good for them to see that she could make an 
 excellent lather while she corrected their blunders 
 " without looking, " — that a woman with her 
 sleeves tucked up above her elbows might know all 
 about the Subjunctive Mood or the Torrid Zone, — 
 that, in short, she might possess " education" and 
 other good things ending in "tion," and worthy 
 to be pronounced emphatically, without being a 
 useless doll. When she made remarks to this 
 edifying effect, she had a firm little frown on her 
 brow, which yet did not hinder her face from look- 
 ing benevolent, and her words which came forth 
 like a procession were uttered in a fervid agreeable 
 contralto. Certainly the exemplary Mrs. Garth 
 had her droll aspects, but her character sustained 
 her oddities, as a very fine wine sustains a flavour 
 of skin.
 
 334 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 Towards Fred Vincy she had a motherly feeling, 
 and had always been disposed to excuse his errors, 
 though she would probably not have excused Mary 
 for engaging herself to him, her daughter being in- 
 cluded in that more rigorous judgment which she 
 applied to her own sex. But this very fact of her 
 exceptional indulgence towards him made it the 
 harder to Fred that he must now inevitably sink 
 in her opinion. And tlie circumstances of his visit 
 turned out to be still more unpleasant than he had 
 expected ; for Caleb Garth had gone out early to 
 look at some repairs not far off. Mrs. Garth- at 
 certain hours was always in the kitchen, and this 
 morning she was carrying on several occupations 
 at once there, — making her pies at the well- 
 scoured deal table on one side of that airy room, 
 observing Sally's movements at the oven and 
 dough-tub through an open door, and giving les- 
 sons to her youngest boy and girl, who were stand- 
 ing opposite to her at the table with their books 
 and slates before them. A tub and a clothes-horse 
 at the other end of the kitchen indicated an inter- 
 mittent wash of small things also going on. 
 
 Mrs. Garth, with her sleeves turned above her 
 elbows, deftly handling her pastry, — applying her 
 rolling-pin and giving ornamental pinches, while 
 she expounded with grammatical fervour what 
 were the right views about the concord of verbs 
 and pronouns with " nouns of multitude or signify- 
 ing many," was a sight agreeably amusing. She 
 was of the same curly-haired, square-faced type as 
 Mary, but handsomer, with more delicacy of fea- 
 ture, a pale skin, a solid matronly figure, and a 
 remarkable firmness of glance. In her snowy- 
 frilled cap she reminded one of that delightful
 
 WAITING POR DEATH. 335 
 
 Frenchwoman whom we have all seen marketing, 
 basket ou arm. Looking at the mother, you might 
 hope that the daughter would become like her, 
 which is a prospective advantage equal to a dowry, 
 — the mother too often standing behind the daugh- 
 ter like a malignant prophecy, — " Such as I am, 
 she will shortly be " 
 
 " Now let us go through that once more, " said 
 Mrs. Garth, pinching an apple-puff which seemed 
 to distract Ben, an energetic young male with a 
 heavy brow, from due attention to the lesson. 
 " '-Not without regard to the import of the word as 
 conveying unity or plurality of idea,' — tell me 
 again what that means, Ben. " 
 
 (Mrs. Garth, like more celebrated educators, had 
 her favourite ancient paths, and in a general wreck 
 of society would have tried to hold her " Lindley 
 Murray" above the waves.) 
 
 " Oh — it means — you must think what you 
 mean, " said Ben, rather peevishly. " I hate 
 grammar. What's the use of it?" 
 
 " To teach you to speak and write correctly, so 
 that you can be understood, " said Mrs. Garth, 
 with severe precision. " Should you like to speak 
 as old Job does ? " 
 
 " Yes, " said Ben, stoutly ; " it's funnier. He 
 says, 'Yo goo,' — that's just as good as 'You go. ' " 
 
 " But he says 'A ship's in the garden,' instead 
 of 'a sheep,'" said Letty, with an air of superior- 
 ity. " You might think he meant a ship off the 
 sea. " 
 
 "No, you mightn't if you weren't silly," said 
 Ben. " How could a ship off the sea come there ? " 
 
 " These things belong only to pronunciation, 
 which is the least part of grammar," s^id Mrs.
 
 336 MIDDLEMAUCH. 
 
 Garth. " That apple-peel is to be eaten by the 
 pigs, Ben ; if you eat it, I must give them your 
 piece of pasty. Job has only to speak about very 
 plain things. How do you think you would write 
 or speak about anything more difficult, if you 
 knew no more of grammar than he does ? You 
 would use wrong words, and put words in the 
 wrong places, and instead of making people under- 
 stand you, they would turn away from you as a 
 tiresome person. What would you do then ? " 
 
 " I shouldn't care, I should leave off," said Ben, 
 with a sense that this was an agreeable issue where 
 grammar was concerned. 
 
 " 1 see you are getting tired and stupid, Ben, " 
 said Mrs. Garth, accustomed to these obstructive 
 arguments from her male offspring. Having finished 
 her pies, she moved towards the clothes-horse, and 
 said, " Come here and tell me the story I told you 
 on Wednesday, about Cincinnatus. " 
 
 " I know ! he was a farmer, " said Ben. 
 
 "Now, Ben, he was a Eoman, — let me tell," 
 said Letty, using her elbow contentiously. 
 
 " You silly thing, he was a Eoman farmer, and 
 he was ploughing. " 
 
 " Yes, but before that — that did n't come first — 
 people wanted him, " said Letty. 
 
 " Well, but you must say what sort of a man he 
 was first, " insisted Ben. " He was a wise man, 
 like my father, and that made the people want his 
 advice. And he was a brave man, and could fight. 
 And so could my father — could n't he, mother ? " 
 
 " Now, Ben, let me tell the story straight 
 on, as mother told it us, " said Letty, frowning. 
 " Please, mother, tell Ben not to speak. " 
 
 " Letty, I am ashamed of you, " said her mother,
 
 WAITING FOR DEATH. 337 
 
 wringing out the caps from the tub. " When your 
 brother began, you ought to have waited to see if 
 he could not tell the story. How rude you look, 
 pushing and frowning, as if you wanted to con- 
 quer with your elbows ! Cinciunatus, I am sure, 
 would have been sorry to see his daughter behave 
 so. " (Mrs. Garth delivered this awful sentence 
 with much majesty of enunciation, and Letty felt 
 that between repressed volubility and general dis- 
 esteem, that of the Eomans inclusive, life was 
 already a painful affair. ) " Now, Ben. " 
 
 " Well — oh — well — why, there was a great 
 deal of fighting, and they were all blockheads, and 
 — 1 can't tell it just how you told it — but they 
 wanted a man to be captain and king and every- 
 thing — " 
 
 " Dictator, now, " said Letty, with injured looks, 
 and not without a wish to make her mother repent. 
 
 "Very well, dictator!" said Ben, contemptu- 
 ously. "But that isn't a good word: he didn't 
 tell them to write on slates. " 
 
 " Come, come, Ben, you are not so ignorant as 
 that, " said Mrs. Garth, carefully serious. " Hark, 
 there is a knock at the door! Eun, Letty, and 
 open it. " 
 
 The knock was Fred's ; and when Letty said that 
 her father was not in yet, but that her mother was 
 in the kitchen, Fred had no alternative. He could 
 not depart from his usual practice of going to see 
 Mrs. Garth in the kitchen if she happened to be at 
 work there. He put his arm round Letty 's neck 
 silently, and led her into the kitchen without his 
 usual jokes and caresses. 
 
 Mrs. Garth was surprised to see Fred at this 
 hour, but surprise was not a feeling that she was 
 VOL. I. — 22
 
 338 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 given to express, and she only said, quietly con- 
 tinuing her work, — • 
 
 " You, Fred, so early in the day ? You look 
 quite pale. Has anything happened ? " 
 
 " I want to speak to Mr. Garth, " said Fred, not 
 yet ready to say more, — "and to you also," he 
 added, after a little pause, for he had no doubt 
 that Mrs. Garth knew everything about the bill, 
 and he must in the end speak of it before her, if 
 not to her solely. 
 
 " Caleb will be in again in a few minutes, " said 
 Mrs. Garth, who imagined some trouble between 
 Fred and his father. " He is sure not to be long, 
 because he has some work at his desk that must be 
 done this morning. Do you mind staying with 
 me, while I finish my matters here ? " 
 
 " But we needn't go on about Cincinnatus, need 
 we?" said Ben, who had taken Fred's whip out 
 of his hand, and was trying its efficiency on the 
 cat. 
 
 " No, go out now. But put that whip down. 
 How very mean of you to whip poor old Tortoise ! 
 Pray take the whip from him, Fred. " 
 
 " Come, old boy, give it me, " said Fred, putting 
 out his hand. 
 
 " Will you let me ride on your horse to-day ? " 
 said Ben, rendering up the whip with an air of 
 not being obliged to do it. 
 
 " Not to-day, — another time. I am not riding 
 my own horse. " 
 
 " Shall you see Mary to-day 1 " 
 
 " Yes, I think so, " said Fred, with an unpleasant 
 twinge. 
 
 " Tell her to come home soon, and play at for- 
 feits, and make fun. "
 
 WAITING FOR DEATH. 339 
 
 " Enough, enough, Ben ! run away ! " said Mrs. 
 Garth, seeing that Fred was teased. 
 
 " Are Letty and Ben your only pupils now, Mrs. 
 Garth ? " said Fred, when the children were gone 
 and it was needful to say something that would 
 pass the time. He was not yet sure whether he 
 should wait for Mr. Garth, or use any good oppor- 
 tunity in conversation to confess to Mrs. Garth 
 herself, give her the money, and ride away. 
 
 "One, — only one. Fanny Hackbutt comes at 
 half-past eleven. I am not getting a great income 
 now," said Mrs. Garth, smiling. " I am at a low 
 ebb with pupils. But I have saved my little purse 
 for Alfred's premium : I have ninety-two pounds. 
 He can go to Mr. Hanmer's now; he is just at the 
 right age. " 
 
 This did not lead well towards the news that 
 Mr. Garth was on the brink of losing ninety-two 
 pounds and more. Fred was silent. " Young gen- 
 tlemen who go to college are rather more costly 
 than that, " Mrs. Garth innocently continued, pull- 
 ing out the edging on a cap-border. " And Caleb 
 thinks that Alfred will turn out a distinguished 
 engineer : he wants to give the boy a good chance. 
 There he is ! I hear him coming in. We will go 
 to him in the parlour, shall we ? " 
 
 When they entered the parlour, Caleb had thrown 
 down his hat and was seated at his desk. 
 
 " What ! Fred, my boy ! " he said, in a tone of 
 mild surprise, holding his pen still undipped ; 
 " you are here betimes. " But missing the usual 
 expression of cheerful greeting in Fred's face, he 
 immediately added, " Is there anything up at 
 home ? — anything the matter ? " 
 
 " Yes, Mr. Garth, I am come to tell something
 
 340 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 that r am afraid will give you a bad opinion of me. 
 I am come to tell you and Mrs. Garth that I can't 
 keep my word. I can't find the money to meet the 
 bill, after all. I have been unfortunate; I have 
 only got these fifty pounds towards the hundred 
 and sixty. " 
 
 While Fred was speaking, he had taken out the 
 notes and laid them on the desk before Mr. Garth. 
 He had burst forth at once with the plain fact, 
 feeling boyishly miserable and without verbal re- 
 sources. Mrs. Garth was mutely astonished, and 
 looked at her husband for an explanation. Caleb 
 blushed, and after a little pause said, — 
 
 " Oh, I didn't tell you, Susan: I put my name 
 to a bill for Fred ; it was for a hundred and sixty 
 pounds. He made sure he could meet it himself. " 
 
 There was an evident change in Mrs. Garth's 
 face, but it was like a change below the surface of 
 water which remains smooth. She fixed her eyes 
 on Fred, saying, — 
 
 " I suppose you have asked your father for the 
 rest of the money and he has refused you. " 
 
 " No, " said Fred, biting his lip, and speaking 
 with more difficulty ; " but I know it will be of no 
 use to ask him ; and unless it were of use, I should 
 not like to mention Mr. Garth's name in the 
 matter. " 
 
 " It has come at an unfortunate time, " said 
 Caleb, in his hesitating way, looking down at the 
 notes and nervously fingering the paper, " Christ- 
 mas upon us — I'm rather hard up just now. You 
 see, I have to cut out everything like a tailor with 
 short measure. What can we do, Susan ? I shall 
 want every farthing we have in the bank. It 's a 
 hundred and ten pounds, the deuce take it ! "
 
 WAITING FOR DEATH. 34r 
 
 " I must give you the ninety-two pounds that 
 I have put by for Alfred's premium," said Mrs. 
 Garth, gravely and decisively, though a nice ear 
 might have discerned a slight tremour in some of 
 the words. " And I have no doubt that Mary has 
 twenty pounds saved from her salary by this time. 
 She will advance it. " 
 
 Mrs. Garth had not again looked at Fred, and 
 was not in the least calculating what words she 
 should use to cut him the most effectively. Like 
 the eccentric woman she was, she was at present 
 absorbed in considering what was to be done, and 
 did not fancy that the end could be better achieved 
 by bitter remarks or explosions. But she had made 
 Fred feel for the first time something like the tooth 
 of remorse. Curiously enough, his pain in the 
 affair beforehand had consisted almost entirely in 
 the sense that he must seem dishonourable and sink 
 in the opinion of the Garths : he had not occupied 
 himself with the inconvenience and possible injury 
 that his breach might occasion them, for this exer- 
 cise of the imagination on other people's needs is 
 not common with hopeful young gentlemen. In- 
 deed we are most of us brought up in the notion 
 that the highest motive for not doing a wrong is 
 something irrespective of the beings who would 
 suffer the wrong. But at this moment he sud- 
 denly saw himself as a pitiful rascal who was 
 robbing two women of their savings. 
 
 " I shall certainly pay it all, Mrs. Garth, — 
 ultimately, " he stammered out. 
 
 " Yes, ultimately, " said Mrs. Garth, who having 
 a special dislike to fine words on ugly occasions 
 could not now repress an epigram. " But boys can- 
 not well be apprenticed ultimately : they should be
 
 342 MIDDLEMABCH. 
 
 apprenticed at fifteen. " She had never been so 
 little inclined to make excuses for Fred. 
 
 " I was the most in the wrong, Susan, " said 
 Caleb. " Fred made sure of finding the money. 
 But I 'd no business to be fingering bills. I sup- 
 pose you have looked all round and tried all honest 
 means?" he added, fixing his merciful gray eyes 
 on Fred. Caleb was too delicate to specify Mr. 
 Featherstone. 
 
 " Yes, I have tried everything, — 1 really have. 
 I should have had a hundred and thirty pounds 
 ready but for a misfortune with a horse which I 
 was about to sell. My uncle had given me eighty 
 pounds, and I paid away thirty with my old horse 
 in order to get another which I was going to sell 
 for eighty or more — I meant to go without a horse 
 — but now it has turned out vicious and lamed 
 itself. I wish I and the horses too had been at the 
 devil, before I had brought this on you. There 's 
 no one else I care so much for : you and Mrs. 
 Garth have always been so kind to me. How- 
 ever, it 's no use saying that. You will always 
 think me a rascal now. " 
 
 Fred turned round and hurried out of the room, 
 conscious that he was getting rather womanish, 
 and feeling confusedly that his being sorry was 
 not of much use to the Garths. They could see 
 him mount, and quickly pass through the gate. 
 
 " I am disappointed in Fred Vincy, " said Mrs. 
 Garth. " I would not have believed beforehand 
 that he would have drawn you into his debts. I 
 knew he was extravagant, but I did not think that 
 he would be so mean as to hang his risks on his 
 oldest friend, who could the least afford to lose. " 
 
 " I was a fool, Susan. "
 
 WAITING FOR DEATH. 343 
 
 " That you were, " said the wife, nodding and 
 smiling. " But 1 should not have gone to publish 
 it in the market-place. Why should you keep such 
 things from me ? It is just so with your buttons : 
 you let them burst off without telling me, and go 
 out with your wristband hanging. If I had only 
 known I might have been ready with some better 
 plan. " 
 
 " You are sadly cut up, I know, Susan, " said 
 Caleb, looking feelingly at her. " I can't abide 
 your losing the money you 've scraped together for 
 Alfred. " 
 
 " It is very well that I had scraped it together; 
 and it is you who will have to suffer, for you 
 must teach the boy yourself. You must give up 
 your bad habits. Some men take to drinking, and 
 you have taken to working without pay. You 
 must indulge yourself a little less in that. And 
 you must ride over to Mary, and ask the child 
 what money she has. " 
 
 Caleb had pushed his chair back, and was lean- 
 ing forward, shaking his head slowly, and fitting 
 his finger-tips together with much nicety. 
 
 " Poor Mary ! " he said. " Susan, " he went on 
 in a lowered tone, " I'm afraid she may be fond of 
 Fred. " 
 
 " Oh, no ! She always laughs at him ; and he is 
 not likely to think of her in any other than a 
 brotherly way. " 
 
 Caleb made no rejoinder, but presently lowered 
 his spectacles, drew up his chair to the desk, and 
 said: "Deuce take the bill, — I wish it was at 
 Hanover ! These things are a sad interruption to 
 business ! " 
 
 The first part of this speech comprised his whole
 
 344 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 store of maledictory expression, and was uttered 
 with a slight snarl easy to imagine. But it would 
 be difficult to convey to those who never heard him 
 utter the word " business, " the peculiar tone of 
 fervid veneration, of religious regard, in which he 
 wrapped it, as a consecrated symbol is wrapped in 
 its gold-fringed linen. 
 
 Caleb Garth often shook his head in meditation on 
 the value, the indispensable might of that myriad- 
 headed, myriad-handed labour by which the social 
 body is fed, clothed, and housed. It had laid hold 
 of his imagination in boyhood. The echoes of the 
 great hammer where roof or keel was a-making, 
 the signal shouts of the workmen, the roar of the 
 furnace, the thunder and plash of the engine, were 
 a sublime music to him; the felling and lading of 
 timber, and the huge trunk vibrating star-like in 
 the distance along the highway, the crane at work 
 on the wharf, the piled-up produce in warehouses, 
 the precision and variety of muscular effort wher- 
 ever exact work had to be turned out, — ■ all these 
 sights of his youth had acted on him as poetry 
 without the aid of the poets, had made a philo- 
 sophy for him without the aid of philosophers, a 
 religion without the aid of theology. His early 
 ambition had been to have as effective a share as 
 possible in this sublime labour, which was pecu- 
 liarly dignified by him with the name of " busi- 
 ness ; " and though he had only been a short time 
 under a surveyor, and had been chiefly his own 
 teacher, he knew more of land, building, and min- 
 ing than most of the special men in the county. 
 
 His classification of human employments was 
 rather crude, and, like the categories of more cele- 
 brated men, would not be acceptable in these
 
 WAITING FOR DEATH. 345 
 
 advanced times. He divided them into " business, 
 politics, preaching, learning, and amusement. " 
 He had nothing to say against the last four; but 
 he regarded them as a reverential pagan regarded 
 other gods than his own. In the same way he 
 thought very well of all ranks, but he would not 
 himself have liked to be of any rank in which he 
 had not such close contact with " business" as to 
 get often honourably decorated with marks of dust 
 and mortar, the damp of the engine, or the sweet 
 soil of the woods and fields. Though he had never 
 regarded himself as other than an Orthodox Chris- 
 tian, and would argue on prevenient grace if the 
 subject were proposed to him, I think his virtual 
 divinities were good practical schemes, accurate 
 work, and the faithful completion of undertakings : 
 his prince of darkness was a slack workman. But 
 there was no spirit of denial in Caleb, and the 
 world seemed so wondrous to him that he was 
 ready to accept any number of systems, like any 
 number of firmaments, if they did not obviously 
 interfere with the best land-drainage, solid build- 
 ing, correct measuring, and judicious boring (for 
 coal). In fact, he had a reverential soul with a 
 strong practical intelligence. But he could not 
 manage finance : he knew values well, but he had 
 no keenness of imagination for monetary results 
 in the shape of profit and loss : and having ascer- 
 tained this to his cost, he determined to give up 
 all forms of his beloved " business" which required 
 that talent. He gave himself up entirely to the 
 many kinds of work which he could do without 
 handling capital, and was one of those precious 
 men within his own district whom everybody
 
 346 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 would choose to work for them, because he did his 
 work well, charged very little, and often declined 
 to charge at all. It is no wonder, then, that the 
 Garths were poor, and " lived in a small way. " 
 However, they did not mind it.
 
 CHAPTEK XXV. 
 
 Love seeketh not itself to please, 
 
 Nor for itself hath any care, 
 But for another gives its ease, 
 
 And builds a heaven in hell's despair. 
 
 Love seeketh only seK to please. 
 
 To bind another to its delight, 
 Joys in another's loss of ease, 
 
 And buUds a hell in heaven's despite. 
 
 W. Blake : Songs of Experience. 
 
 Feed Vincy wanted to arrive at Stone Court when 
 Mary could not expect him, and when his uncle 
 was not downstairs : in that case she might be sit- 
 ting alone in the wainscoted parlour. He left his 
 horse in the yard to avoid making a noise on the 
 gravel in front, and entered the parlour without 
 other notice than the noise of the door-handle. 
 Mary was in her usual corner, laughing over Mrs. 
 Piozzi's recollections of Johnson, and looked up 
 with the fun still in her face. It gradually faded 
 as she saw Fred approach her without speaking, 
 and stand before her with his elbow on the mantel- 
 piece, looking ill. She too was silent, only raising 
 her eyes to him inquiringly. 
 
 " Mary, " he began, "I am a good-for-nothing 
 blackguard. " 
 
 " I should think one of those epithets would do 
 at a time, " said Mary, trying to smile, but feeling 
 alarmed. 
 
 " I know you will never think well of me any 
 more. You will think me a liar. You will think
 
 348 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 me dishonest. You will think I didn't care for 
 you, or your father and mother. You always do 
 make the worst of me, I know. " 
 
 " I cannot deny that I shall think all that of 
 you, Fred, if you give me good reasons. But please 
 to tell me at once what you have done. I would 
 rather know the painful truth than imagine it. " 
 
 " I owed money, — a hundred and sixty pounds. 
 I asked your father to put his name to a bill. I 
 thought it would not signify to him. I made sure 
 of paying the money myself, and I have tried as 
 hard as I could. And now, I have been so unlucky 
 — a horse has turned out badly — I can only pay 
 fifty pounds. And I can't ask my father for the 
 money : he would not give me a farthing. And 
 my uncle gave me a hundred a little while ago. 
 So what can I do ? And now your father has no 
 ready money to spare, and your mother will have 
 to pay away her ninety-two pounds that she has 
 saved, and she says your savings must go too. You 
 see what a — " 
 
 " Oh, poor mother, poor father! " said Mary, her 
 eyes filling with tears, and a little sob rising which 
 she tried to repress. She looked straight before 
 her and took no notice of Fred, all the conse- 
 quences at home becoming present to her. He too 
 remained silent for some moments, feeling more 
 miserable than ever. 
 
 "I wouldn't have hurt you so for the world, 
 Mary, " he said at last. " You can never forgive 
 me." 
 
 " What does it matter whether I forgive you ? " 
 said Mary, passionately. " Would that make it 
 any better for my mother to lose the money she 
 has been earning by lessons for four years, that she
 
 WAITING FOR DEATH. 349 
 
 might send Alfred to Mr. Hanmer's ? Should you 
 think all that pleasant enough if I forgave you ? " 
 
 " Say what you like, Mary. I deserve it all. " 
 
 "I don't want to say anything," said Mary, 
 more quietly ; " my anger is of no use. " She dried 
 her eyes, threw aside her book, rose, and fetched 
 her sewing. 
 
 Fred followed her with his eyes, hoping that 
 they would meet hers, and in that way find access 
 for his imploring penitence. But no ! Mary could 
 easily avoid looking upward. 
 
 " I do care about your mother's money going, " 
 he said, when she was seated again and sewing 
 quickly. " I wanted to ask you, Mary — don't 
 you think that Mr. Featherstone — if you were to 
 tell him — tell him, I mean, about apprenticing 
 Alfred — would advance the money ? " 
 
 " My family is not fond of begging, Fred. We 
 would rather work for our money. Besides, you 
 say that Mr. Featherstone has lately given you a 
 hundred pounds. He rarely makes presents ; he 
 has never made presents to us. I am sure my 
 father will not ask him for anything ; and even if 
 I chose to beg of him, it would be of no use. " 
 
 " I am so miserable, Mary, — if you knew how 
 miserable I am, you would be sorry for me. " 
 
 " There are other things to be more sorry for than 
 that. But selfish people always think their own 
 discomfort of more importance than anything else 
 in the world : I see enough of that every day. " 
 
 " It is hardly fair to call me selfish. If you 
 knew what things other young men do, you would 
 think me a good way off the worst. " 
 
 " I know that people who spend a great deal of 
 money on themselves without knowing how they
 
 350 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 shall pay, must be selfish. They are always think- 
 ing of what they can get for themselves, and not of 
 what other people may lose. " 
 
 " Any man may be unfortunate, Mary, and find 
 himself unable to pay when he meant it. There is 
 not a better man in the world than your father, 
 and yet he got into trouble. " 
 
 " How dare you make any comparison between 
 my father and you, Fred ? " said Mary, in a deep 
 tone of indignation. " He never got into trouble 
 by thinking of his own idle pleasures, but because 
 he was always thinking of the work he was doing 
 for other people. And he has fared hard, and 
 worked hard to make good everybody's loss. " 
 
 " And you think that I shall never try to make 
 good anything, Mary. It is not generous to believe 
 the worst of a man. When you have got any power 
 over him, I think you might try and use it to make 
 him better ; but that is what you never do. How- 
 ever, I 'm going, " Fred ended languidly. " I shall 
 never speak to you about anything again. I 'm 
 very sorry for all the trouble I 've caused, — that 's 
 all. " 
 
 Mary had dropped her work out of her hand and 
 looked up. There is often something maternal 
 even in a girlish love, and Mary's hard experience 
 had wrought her nature to an impressibility very 
 different from that hard slight thing which we call 
 girlishness. At Fred's last words she felt an in- 
 stantaneous pang, something like what a mother 
 feels at the imagined sobs or cries of her naughty 
 truant child, which may lose itself and get harm. 
 And when, looking up, her eyes met his dull de- 
 spairing glance, her pity for him surmounted her 
 anger and all her other anxieties.
 
 WAITING FOR DEATH. 351 
 
 " Oh, Fred, how ill you look ! Sit down a 
 moment. Don't go yet. Let me tell uncle that 
 you are here. He has been wondering that he has 
 not seen you for a whole week. " Mary spoke 
 hurriedly, saying the words that came first without 
 knowing very well what they were, but saying them 
 in a half-soothing, half-beseeching tone, and rising 
 as if to go away to Mr. Featherstone. Of course 
 Fred felt as if the clouds had parted and a gleam 
 had come : he moved and stood in her way. 
 
 " Say one word, Mary, and I will do anything. 
 Say you will not think the worst of me, — will not 
 give me up altogether. " 
 
 " As if it were any pleasure to me to think ill of 
 you, " said Mary, in a mournful tone. " As if it 
 were not very painful to me to see you an idle friv- 
 olous creature. How can you bear to be so con- 
 temptible, when others are working and striving, 
 and there are so many things to be done, — how 
 can you bear to be fit for nothing in the world that 
 is useful ? And with so much good in your dis- 
 position, Fred, — you might be worth a great 
 deal. " 
 
 " I will try to be anything you like, Mary, if 
 you will say that you love me. " 
 
 " I should be ashamed to say that I loved a man 
 who must always be hanging on others, and reckon- 
 ing on what they would do for him. What will 
 you be when you are forty ? Like Mr. Bowyer, I 
 suppose — 'just as idle, living in Mrs. Beck's front 
 parlour — fat and shabby, hoping somebody will 
 invite you to dinner — spending your morning in 
 learning a comic song — oh, no! learning a tune on 
 the flute. " 
 
 Mary's lips had begun to curl with a smile as
 
 352 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 soon as she had asked that question about Fred's 
 future (young souls are mobile), and before she 
 ended, her face had its full illumination of fun. 
 To him it was like the cessation of an ache that 
 Mary could laugh at him, and with a passive sort 
 of smile he tried to reach her hand ; but she 
 slipped away quickly towards the door and said, 
 " I shall tell uncle. You must see him for a 
 moment or two. " 
 
 Fred secretly felt that his future was guaranteed 
 against the fulfilment of Mary's sarcastic pro- 
 phecies, apart from that " anything" which he was 
 ready to do if she would define it. He never 
 dared in Mary's presence to approach the subject 
 of his expectations from Mr. Featherstone, and she 
 always ignored them, as if everything depended on 
 himself. But if ever he actually came into the 
 property, she must recognize the change in his 
 position. All this passed through his mind some- 
 what languidly, before he went up to see his 
 uncle. He stayed but a little while, excusing 
 himself on the ground that he had a cold ; and 
 Mary did not reappear before he left the house. 
 But as he rode home, he began to be more con- 
 scious of being ill than of being melancholy. 
 
 When Caleb Garth arrived at Stone Court soon 
 after dusk, Mary was not surprised, although he 
 seldom had leisure for paying her a visit, and was 
 not at all fond of having to talk with Mr. Feather- 
 stone. The old man, on the other hand, felt him- 
 self ill at ease with a brother-in-law whom he 
 could not annoy, who did not mind about being 
 considered poor, had nothing to ask of him, and 
 understood all kinds of farming and mining busi- 
 ness better than he did. But Marv had felt sure
 
 WAITING rOR DEATH. 353 
 
 that her parents would want to see her, and if her 
 father had not come, she would have obtained 
 leave to go home for an hour or two the next day. 
 After discussing prices during tea with Mr. Feather- 
 stone, Caleb rose to bid him good-by, and said, " I 
 want to speak to you, Mary. " 
 
 She took a candle into another large parlour, 
 where there was no fire, and setting down the 
 feeble light on the dark mahogany table, turned 
 round to her father, and putting her arms round 
 his neck kissed him with childish kisses which he 
 delighted in, — 'the expression of his large brows 
 softening as the expression of a great beautiful dog 
 softens when it is caressed. Mary was his favour- 
 ite child ; and whatever Susan might say, and right 
 as she was on all other subjects, Caleb thought it 
 natural that Fred or any one else should think 
 Mary more lovable than other girls. 
 
 " I 've got something to tell you, my dear, " said 
 Caleb, in his hesitating way. " Xo very good 
 news ; but then it might be worse. " 
 
 " About money, father ? I think I know what 
 it is." 
 
 " Ay ? how can that be ? You see, I 've been a 
 bit of a fool again, and put my name to a bill, and 
 now it comes to paying ; and your mother has got 
 to part with her savings, that 's the worst of it, 
 and even they won't quite make things even. We 
 wanted a hundred and ten pounds : your mother 
 has ninety-two, and I have none to spare in the 
 bank ; and she thinks that you have some savings. " 
 
 " Oh, yes ; I have more than four-and-twenty 
 pounds. I thought you would come, father, so I 
 put it in my bag. See ! beautiful white notes and 
 gold." 
 
 VOL. I. — 23
 
 354 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 Mary took out the folded money from her reti- 
 cule, and put it into her father's hand. 
 
 " Well, but how — we only want eighteen — here, 
 put the rest back, child — but how did you know 
 about it ? " said Caleb, who, in his unconquerable 
 indifference to money, was beginning to be chiefly 
 concerned about the relation the affair might have 
 to Mary's affections. 
 
 " Fred told me this morning. " 
 
 " Ah ! Did he come on purpose ? " 
 
 " Yes, I think so. He was a good deal dis- 
 tressed. " 
 
 " I 'm afraid Fred is not to be trusted, Mary, " 
 said the father, with hesitating tenderness. " He 
 means better than he acts, perhaps. But I should 
 think it a pity for anybody's happiness to be 
 wrapped up in him, and so would your mother. " 
 
 " And so should I, father, " said Mary, not look- 
 ing up, but putting the back of her father's hand 
 against her cheek. 
 
 " I don't want to pry, my dear. But I was 
 afraid there might be something between you and 
 Fred, and I wanted to caution you. You see, 
 Mary," — here Caleb's voice became more tender; 
 he had been pushing his hat about on the table 
 and looking at it, but finally he turned his eyes on 
 his daughter, — "a woman, let her be as good as 
 she may, has got to put up with the life her hus- 
 band makes for her. Your mother has had to put 
 up with a good deal because of me. " 
 
 Mary turned the back of her father's hand to her 
 lips and smiled at him. 
 
 " Well, well, nobody's perfect; but " — here Mr. 
 Garth shook his head to help out the inadequacy 
 of words — " what I am thinkinc: of is — what it
 
 WAITING rOR DEATH. 355 
 
 must be for a wife when she's never sure of her 
 husband, when he has n't got a principle in him to 
 make him more afraid of doing the wrong thing 
 by others than of getting his own toes pinched. 
 That 's the long and the short of it, Mary. Young 
 folks may get fond of each other before they know 
 what life is, and they may think it all holiday if 
 they can only get together ; but it soon turns into 
 working day, my dear. However, you have more 
 sense than most, and you have n't been kept in 
 cotton -wool : there may be no occasion for me to 
 say this, but a father trembles for his daughter, 
 and you are all by yourself here. " 
 
 "Don't fear for me, father," said Mary, gravely 
 meeting her father's eyes. " Fred has always been 
 very good to me ; he is kind-hearted and affec- 
 tionate, and not false, I think, with all his self- 
 indulgence. But I will never engage myself to 
 one who has no manly independence, and who goes 
 on loitering away his time on the chance that 
 others will provide for him. You and my mother 
 have taught me too much pride for that. " 
 
 " That 's right, — that 's right. Then I am 
 easy, " said Mr. Garth, taking up his hat. " But 
 it 's hard to run away with your earnings, child. " 
 
 " Father ! " said Mary, in her deepest tone of 
 remonstrance. "Take pocketfuls of love besides 
 to them all at home, " was her last word before he 
 closed the outer door on himself. 
 
 " I suppose your father wanted your earnings, " 
 said old Mr. Featherstone, with his usual power 
 of unpleasant surmise, when Mary returned to 
 him. " He makes but a tight fit, I reckon. 
 You 're of age now ; you ought to be saving for 
 yourself. "
 
 35 6 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 " I consider my father and mother the best part 
 of myself, sir, " said Mary, coldly. 
 
 Mr. Featherstone grunted : he could not deny 
 that an ordinary sort of girl like her might be 
 expected to be useful, so he thought of another 
 rejoinder, disagreeable enough to be always apropos : 
 " If Fred Vincy comes to-morrow, now, don't you 
 keep him chattering : let him come up to me. "
 
 CHAPTEE XXVI. 
 
 He beats me and I rail at him : worthy satisfaction ! would 
 it were otherwise, — that I could beat him while he railed at me. — 
 Troilus and Cressida. 
 
 But Fred did not go to Stone Court the next day, 
 for reasons that were quite peremptory. From 
 those visits to unsanitary Houndsley streets in 
 search of Diamond, he had brought back not only 
 a bad bargain in horse-flesh, but the further mis- 
 fortune of some ailment which for a day or two 
 had seemed mere depression and headache, but 
 which got so much worse when he returned from 
 his visit to Stone Court that, going into the dining- 
 room, he threw himself on the sofa, and in answer 
 to his mother's anxious question, said, " I feel 
 very ill : I think you must send for Wrench. " 
 
 Wrench came, but did not apprehend anything 
 serious, spoke of a " slight derangement, " and did 
 not speak of coming again on the morrow. He had 
 a due value for the Vincys' house, but the wariest 
 men are apt to be dulled by routine, and on worried 
 mornings will sometimes go through their business 
 with the zest of the daily bell-ringer. Mr. Wrench 
 was a small, neat, bilious man, with a well-dressed 
 wig : he had a laborious practice, an irascible tem- 
 per, a lymphatic wife , and seven children ; and he 
 was already rather late before setting out on a four- 
 miles drive to meet Dr. Minchin on the other side 
 of Tipton, the decease of Hicks, a rural practi- 
 tioner, having increased Middlemarch practice in
 
 3S8 MIDDLEMAECH. 
 
 that direction. Great statesmen err, and why not 
 small medical men ? Mr. Wrench did not neglect 
 sending the usual white parcels, which this time 
 had black and drastic contents. Their effect was 
 not alleviating to poor Fred, who, however, un- 
 willing as he said to believe that he was " in for 
 an illness, " rose at his usual easy hour the next 
 morning and went downstairs meaning to break- 
 fast, but succeeded in nothing but in sitting and 
 shivering by the fire. Mr. Wrench was again sent 
 for, but was gone on his rounds ; and Mrs. Vincy, 
 seeing her darling's changed looks and general 
 misery, began to cry and said she would send for 
 Dr. Sprague. 
 
 " Oh, nonsense, mother ! It 's nothing, " said 
 Fred, putting out his hot dry hand to her, " I shall 
 soon be all right. I must have taken cold in that 
 nasty damp ride. " 
 
 " Mamma ! " said Eosamond, who was seated 
 near the window (the dining-room windows looked 
 on that highly respectable street called Lowick 
 Gate), " there is Mr. Lydgate, stopping to speak to 
 some one. If I were you, I would call him in. 
 He has cured Ellen Bulstrode. They say he cures 
 every one. " 
 
 Mrs. Vincy sprang to the window and opened it 
 in an instant, thinking only of Fred and not of 
 medical etiquette. Lydgate was only two yards 
 off on the other side of some iron palisading, and 
 turned round at the sudden sound of the sash, 
 before she called to him. In two minutes he was 
 in the room, and Eosamond went out, after waiting 
 just long enough to show a pretty anxiety conflict- 
 ing with her sense of what was becoming. 
 
 Lydgate had to hear a narrative in which Mrs.
 
 WAITING FOR DEATH. 359 
 
 Vincy's mind insisted with remarkable instinct on 
 every point of minor importance, especially on what 
 Mr. Wrench had said and had not said about com- 
 ing again. That there might be an awkward affair 
 with Wrench, Lydgate saw at once ; but the case 
 was serious enough to make him dismiss that con- 
 sideration : he was convinced that Fred was in the 
 pink-skinned stage of typhoid fever, and that he 
 had taken just the wrong medicines. He must go 
 to bed immediately, must have a regular nurse, and 
 various appliances and precautions must be used, 
 about which Lydgate was particular. Poor Mrs. 
 Vincy's terror at these indications of danger found 
 vent in such words as came most easily. She 
 thought it " very ill usage on the part of Mr. 
 Wrench, who had attended their house so many 
 years in preference to Mr. Peacock, though Mr. 
 Peacock was equally a friend. Why Mr. Wrench 
 should neglect her children more than others, she 
 could not for the life of her understand. He had 
 not neglected Mrs. Larcher's when they had the 
 measles, nor indeed would Mrs. Vincy have wished 
 that he should. And if anything should happen — " 
 Here poor Mrs. Vincy's spirit quite broke down, 
 and her Niobe throat and good-humoured face were 
 sadly convulsed. This was in the hall out of 
 Fred's hearing; but Rosamond had opened the 
 drawing-room door, and now came forward anx- 
 iously. Lydgate apologized for Mr. Wrench, said 
 that the symptoms yesterday might have been dis- 
 guising, and that this form of fever was very 
 equivocal in its beginnings : he would go immedi- 
 ately to the druggist's and have a prescription 
 made up in order to lose no time, but he would 
 write to Mr. Wrench and tell him what had been 
 done.
 
 36o MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 " But you must come again, — you must go on 
 attending Fred. I can't have my boy left to any- 
 body who may come or not. I bear nobody ill- 
 will, thank God, and Mr. Wrench saved me in the 
 pleurisy; but he 'd better have let me die — if — 
 if—" 
 
 " I will meet Mr. Wrench here, then, shall I ? " 
 said Lydgate, really believing that Wrench was 
 not well prepared to deal wisely with a case of this 
 kind. 
 
 " Pray make that arrangement, Mr. Lydgate, " 
 said Eosamond, coming to her mother's aid, and 
 supporting her arm to lead her away. 
 
 When Mr. Vincy came home he was very angry 
 with Wrench, and did not care if he never came 
 into his house again. Lydgate should go on now, 
 whether Wrench liked it or not. It was no joke 
 to have fever in the house. Everybody must be 
 sent to now not to come to dinner on Thursday. 
 And Pritchard need n't get up any wine : brandy 
 was the best thing against infection. " I shall 
 drink brandy, " added Mr. Vincy, emphatically, — 
 as much as to say, this was not an occasion for 
 firing with blank-cartridges. " He 's an uncom- 
 monly unfortunate lad, is Fred. He 'd need have 
 some luck by and by to make up for all this, — 
 else I don't know who 'd have an eldest son. " 
 
 " Don't say so, Vincy," said the mother, with a 
 quivering lip, " if you don't want him to be taken 
 from me. " 
 
 " It will worret you to death, Lucy ; that I can 
 see, " said Mr. Vincy, more mildly. " However, 
 Wrench shall know what I think of the matter. " 
 '^What Mr. Vincy thought confusedly was, that 
 the fever might somehow have been hindered if
 
 WATTING FOR DEATH. 361 
 
 Wrench had shown the proper solicitude about his 
 — the Mayor's — family.) " I 'm the last man to 
 give in to the cry about new doctors, or new par- 
 sons either, — whether they 're Bulstrode's men or 
 not. But Wrench shall know what I think, take 
 it as he will. " 
 
 Wrench did not take it at all well. Lydgate 
 was as polite as he could be in his offhand way, 
 but politeness in a man who has placed you at a 
 disadvantage is only an additional exasperation, 
 especially if he happens to have been an object of 
 dislike beforehand. Country practitioners used to 
 be an irritable species, susceptible on the point of 
 honour; and Mr. Wrench was one of the most 
 irritable among them. He did not refuse to meet 
 Lydgate in the evening, but his temper was some- 
 what tried on the occasion. He had to hear Mrs. 
 Vincy say, — 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Wrench, what have I ever done that 
 you should use me so ? — To go away, and never 
 to come again ! And my boy might have been 
 stretched a corpse ! " 
 
 Mr. Vincy, who had been keeping up a sharp 
 fire on the enemy Infection, and was a good deal 
 heated in consequence, started up when he heard 
 Wrench come in, and went into the hall to let him 
 know what he thought. 
 
 " I '11 tell you what, Wrench, this is beyond a 
 joke," said the Mayor, who of late had had to 
 rebuke offenders with an official air, and now 
 broadened himself by putting his thumbs in his 
 armholes. " To let fever get unawares into a 
 house like this. There are some things that ought 
 to be actionable, and are not so, — that 's my 
 opinion. "
 
 362 MIDDLEMAHCH. 
 
 But irrational reproaches were easier to bear 
 than the sense of being instructed, or rather the 
 sense that a younger man, like Lydgate, inwardly 
 considered him in need of instruction, for " in 
 point of fact, " Mr. Wrench afterwards said, Lyd- 
 gate paraded flighty, foreign notions, which would 
 not wear. He swallowed his ire for the moment, 
 but he afterwards wrote to decline further attend- 
 ance in the case. The house might be a good one, 
 but Mr. Wrench was not going to truckle to any- 
 body on a professional matter. He reflected, with 
 much probability on his side, that Lydgate would 
 by and by be caught tripping too, and that his un- 
 gentlemanly attempts to discredit the sale of drugs 
 by his professional brethren would by and by 
 recoil on himself. He threw out biting remarks 
 on Lydgate 's tricks, worthy only of a quack, to get 
 himself a factitious reputation with credulous peo- 
 ple. That cant about cures was never got up by 
 sound practitioners. 
 
 This was a point on which Lydgate smarted as 
 much as Wrench could desire. To be puffed by 
 ignorance was not only humiliating but perilous, 
 and not more enviable than the reputation of the 
 weather-prophet. He was impatient of the foolish 
 expectations amidst which all work must be carried 
 on, and likely enough to damage himself as much 
 as Mr. Wrench could wish, by an unprofessional 
 openness. 
 
 However, Lydgate was installed as medical 
 attendant on the Vincys, and the event was a sub- 
 ject of general conversation in Middlemarch. Some 
 said that the Vincys had behaved scandalously, 
 that Mr. Vincy had threatened Wrench, and that 
 Mrs. Vincy had accused him of poisoning her sou.
 
 WAITING FOR DEATH. 363 
 
 Others were of opinion that Mr. Lydgate's passing 
 by was providential, that he was wonderfully 
 clever in fevers, and that Bulstrode was in the 
 right to bring him forward. Many people believed 
 that Lydgate's coming to the town at all was 
 really due to Bulstrode ; and Mrs. Taft, who was 
 always counting stitches and gathered her informa- 
 tion in misleading fragments caught between the 
 rows of her knitting, had got it into her head that 
 Mr. Lydgate was a natural son of Bulstrode 's, a 
 fact which seemed to justify her suspicions of 
 evangelical laymen. 
 
 She one day communicated this piece of knowl- 
 edge to Mrs. Farebrother, who did not fail to tell 
 her son of it, observing, — ■ 
 
 " I should not be surprised at anything in Bul- 
 strode, but I should be sorry to think it of Mr. 
 Lydgate. " 
 
 " Why, mother, " said Mr. Farebrother, after an 
 explosive laugh, " you know very well that Lyd- 
 gate is of a good family in the North. He never 
 heard of Bulstrode before he came here. " 
 
 " That is satisfactory so far as Mr. Lydgate is 
 concerned, Camden, " said the old lady, with an 
 air of precision. " But as to Bulstrode — the re- 
 port may be true of some other son. "
 
 CHAPTER XXVIL 
 
 " Let the high Muse chant loves Olympian : 
 We are but mortals, and must sing of man." 
 
 An eminent philosopher among my friends, who 
 can dignify even your ugly furniture by lifting it 
 into the serene light of science, has shown me this 
 pregnant little fact. Your pier-glass or extensive 
 surface of polished steel made to he rubbed by a 
 housemaid, will be minutely and multitudinously 
 scratched in all directions ; but place now against 
 it a lighted candle as a centre of illumination, and 
 lo ! the scratches will seem to arrange themselves 
 in a fine series of concentric circles round that lit- 
 tle sun. It is demonstrable that the scratches are 
 going everywhere impartially, and it is only your 
 candle which produces the flattering illusion of a 
 concentric arrangement, its light falling with an 
 exclusive optical selection. These things are a 
 parable. The scratches are events, and the candle 
 is the egoism of any person now absent, — of Miss 
 Vincy, for example. Eosamoud had a Providence 
 of her own who had kindly made her more charm- 
 ing than other girls, and who seemed to have ar- 
 ranged Fred's illness and Mr. Wrench's mistake in 
 order to bring her and Lydgate within effective 
 proximity. It would have been to contravene 
 these arrangements if Rosamond had consented to 
 go away to Stone Court or elsewhere, as her parents 
 wished her to do, especially since Mr. Lydgate 
 thought the precaution needless. Therefore, while
 
 WAITING FOK DEATH. 365 
 
 Miss Morgan and the children were sent away to 
 a farmhouse the morning after Fred's illness had 
 declared itself, Eosamond refused to leave papa 
 and mamma. 
 
 Poor mamma indeed was an ohject to touch any 
 creature born of woman ; and Mr. Vincy, who 
 doted on his wife, was more alarmed on her account 
 than on Fred's. But for his insistence she would 
 have taken no rest : her brightness was all be- 
 dimmed ; unconscious of her costume, which had 
 always been so fresh and gay, she was like a sick 
 bird with languid eye and plumage ruffled, her 
 senses dulled to the sights and sounds that used 
 most to interest her. Fred's delirium, in which 
 he seemed to be wandering out of her reach, tore 
 her heart. After her first outburst against Mr. 
 Wrench she went about very quietly : her one low 
 cry was to Lydgate. She would follow him out of 
 the room and put her hand on his arm, moaning 
 out, " Save my boy. " Once she pleaded, " He has 
 always been good to me, Mr. Lydgate : he never 
 had a hard word for his mother, " — as if poor 
 Fred's suffering were an accusation against him. 
 All the deepest fibres of the mother's memory were 
 stirred, and the young man whose voice took a 
 gentler tone when he spoke to her, was one with 
 the babe whom she had loved, with a love new to 
 her, before he was born. 
 
 " I have good hope, Mrs. Vincy, " Lydgate would 
 say. " Come down with me and let us talk about 
 the food. " In that way he led her to the parlour 
 where Eosamond was, and made a change for her, 
 surprising her into taking some tea or broth which 
 had been prepared for her. There was a constant 
 understanding between him and Eosamond on these
 
 366 MIDDLE MARCH. 
 
 matters. He almost always saw her before going 
 to the sick-room, and she appealed to him as to 
 what she could do for mamma. Her presence of 
 mind and adroitness in carrying out his hints were 
 admirable, and it is not wonderful that the idea of 
 seeing Eosamond began to mingle itself with his 
 interest in the case. Especially when the critical 
 stage was passed, and he began to feel confident of 
 Fred's recovery. In the more doubtful time he 
 had advised calling in Dr. Sprague (who, if he 
 could, would rather have remained neutral on 
 Wrench's account); but after two consultations, 
 the conduct of the case was left to Lydgate, and 
 there was every reason to make him assiduous. 
 Morning and evening he was at Mr. Vincy's, and 
 gradually the visits became cheerful as Fred 
 became simply feeble, and lay not only in need of 
 the utmost petting but conscious of it, so that Mrs. 
 Vincy felt as if, after all, the illness had made a 
 festival for her tenderness. 
 
 Both father and mother held it an added reason 
 for good spirits, when old Mr. Featherstone sent 
 messages by Lydgate, saying that Fred must make 
 haste and get well, as he, Peter Featherstone, 
 could not do without him, and missed his visits 
 sadly. The old man himself was getting bed- 
 ridden. Mrs. Vincy told these messages to Fred 
 when he could listen, and he turned towards her 
 his delicate, pinched face, from which all the 
 thick blond hair had been cut away, and in which 
 the eyes seemed to have got larger, yearning for 
 some word about Mary, — wondering what she felt 
 about his illness. No word passed his lips ; but 
 " to hear with eyes belongs to love's rare wit, " and 
 the mother in the fulness of her heart not only
 
 WAITING FOR DEATH. 367 
 
 divined Fred's longing, but felt ready for any 
 sacrifice in order to satisfy him. 
 
 " If I can only see my boy strong again, " she 
 said, in her loving folly ; " and who knows ? — per- 
 haps master of Stone Court ! and he can marry 
 anybody he likes then. " 
 
 " Not if they won't have me, mother," said Fred. 
 The illness had made him childish, and tears came 
 as he spoke. 
 
 " Oh, take a bit of jelly, my dear, " said Mrs. 
 Yincy, secretly incredulous of any such refusal. 
 
 She never left Fred's side when her husband was 
 not in the house, and thus Eosamond was in the 
 unusual position of being much alone. Lydgate, 
 naturally, never thought of staying long with her, 
 yet it seemed that the brief impersonal conversa- 
 tions they had together were creating that peculiar 
 intimacy which consists in shyness. They were 
 obliged to look at each other in speaking, and some- 
 how the looking could not be carried through as 
 the matter of course which it really was. Lydgate 
 began to feel this sort of consciousness unpleasant, 
 and one day looked down, or anywhere, like an ill- 
 worked puppet. But this turned out badly : the 
 next day, Eosamond looked down, and the con- 
 sequence was that when their eyes met again, both 
 were more conscious than before. There was no 
 help for this in science, and as Lydgate did not 
 want to flirt, there seemed to be no help for it in 
 folly. It was therefore a relief when neighbours 
 no longer considered the house in quarantine, and 
 when the chances of seeing Eosamond alone were 
 very much reduced. 
 
 But that intimacy of mutual embarrassment, in 
 which each feels that the other is feeling some-
 
 368 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 thing, having once existed, its effect is not to be 
 done away with. Talk about the weather and 
 other well-bred topics is apt to seem a hollow 
 device, and behaviour can hardly become easy un- 
 less it frankly recognizes a mutual fascination, — 
 which of course need not mean anything deep or 
 serious. This was the way in which Eosamond 
 and Lydgate slid gracefully into ease, and made 
 their intercourse lively again. Visitors came and 
 went as usual, there was once more music in the 
 drawing-room, and all the extra hospitality of Mr. 
 Vincy's mayoralty returned. Lydgate, whenever 
 he could, took his seat by Eosamond 's side, and 
 lingered to hear her music, calling himself her 
 captive, — meaning, all the while, not to be her 
 captive. The preposterousness of the notion that 
 he could at once set up a satisfactory establish- 
 ment as a married man was a sufficient guarantee 
 against danger. This play at being a little in love 
 was agreeable, and did not interfere with graver 
 pursuits. Flirtation, after all, was not necessarily 
 a singeing process. Eosamond, for her part, had 
 never enjoyed the days so much in her life before : 
 she was sure of being admired by some one worth 
 captivating, and she did not distinguish flirtation 
 from love, either in herself or in another. She 
 seemed to be sailing with a fair wind just whither 
 she would go, and her thoughts were much occupied 
 with a handsome house in Lowick Gate which she 
 hoped would by and by be vacant. She was quite 
 determined, when she was married, to rid herself 
 adroitly of all the visitors who were not agreeable 
 to her at her father's ; and she imagined the draw- 
 ing-room in her favourite house with various styles 
 of furniture.
 
 WAITING POR DEATH. 369 
 
 Certainly her thoughts were much occupied with 
 Lydgate himself ; he seemed to her almost perfect : 
 if he had known his notes so that his enchantment 
 under her music had been less like an emotional 
 elephant's, and if he had been able to discriminate 
 better the refinements of her taste in dress, she 
 could hardly have mentioned a deficiency in him. 
 How different he was from young Plymdale or Mr. 
 Caius Larcher ! Those young men had not a notion 
 of French, and could speak on no subject with 
 striking knowledge, except perhaps the dyeing and 
 carrying trades, which of course they were ashamed 
 to mention ; they were Middlemarch gentry, elated 
 with their silver-headed whips and satin stocks, 
 but embarrassed in their manners, and timidly 
 jocose : even Fred was above them, having at least 
 the accent and manner of a university man. 
 Whereas Lydgate was always listened to, bore 
 himself with the careless politeness of conscious 
 superiority, and seemed to have the right clothes 
 on by a certain natural affinity, without ever having 
 to think about them. Eosamond was proud when 
 he entered the room, and when he approached her 
 with a distinguishing smile, she had a delicious 
 sense that she was the object of enviable homage. 
 If Lydgate had been aware of all the pride he 
 excited in that delicate bosom, he might have been 
 just as well pleased as any other man, even the 
 most densely ignorant of humoral pathology or 
 fibrous tissue : he held it one of the prettiest atti- 
 tudes of the feminine mind to adore a man's pre- 
 eminence without too precise a knowledge of what 
 it consisted in. 
 
 But Eosamond was not one of those helpless 
 girls who betray themselves unawares, and whose 
 VOL. I. — 24
 
 37° MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 behaviour is awkwardly driven by their impulses, 
 instead of being steered by wary grace and pro- 
 priety. Do you imagine that her rapid forecast 
 and rumination concerning house-furniture and 
 society were ever discernible in her conversation, 
 even with her mamma ? On the contrary, she 
 would have expressed the prettiest surprise and 
 disapprobation if she had heard that another young 
 lady had been detected in that immodest premature- 
 ness, — indeed, would probably have disbelieved in 
 its possibility. For Rosamond never showed any 
 unbecoming knowledge, and was always that com- 
 bination of correct sentiments, music, dancing, 
 drawing, elegant note-writing, private album for 
 extracted verse, and perfect blond loveliness, which 
 made the irresistible woman for the doomed man of 
 that date. Think no unfair evil of her, pray : she 
 had no wicked plots, nothing sordid or mercenary ; 
 in fact, she never thought of money except as 
 something necessary which other people would 
 always provide, She was not in the habit of 
 devising falsehoods, and if her statements were no 
 direct clew to fact, why, they were not intended 
 in that light, — they were among her elegant 
 accomplishments, intended to please. Nature had 
 inspired many arts in finishing Mrs. Lemon's 
 favourite pupil, who by general consent (Fred's 
 excepted) was a rare compound of beauty, clever- 
 ness, and amiability. 
 
 Lydgate found it more and more agreeable to be 
 with her, and there was no constraint now, there 
 was a delightful interchange of influence in their 
 eyes, and what they said had that superfluity of 
 meaning for them, which is observable with some 
 sense of flatness by a third person ; still they had
 
 WAITING FOR DEATH. 371 
 
 no interviews or asides from which a third person 
 need have been excluded. In fact, they flirted ; 
 and Lydgate was secure in the belief that they did 
 nothing else. If a man could not love and be 
 wise, surely he could flirt and be wise at the same 
 time ? Eeally, the men in Middlemarch, except 
 Mr. Farebrother, were great bores, and Lydgate 
 did not care about commercial politics or cards : 
 what was he to do for relaxation ? He was often 
 invited to the Bulstrodes' ; but the girls there were 
 hardly out of the schoolroom ; and Mrs. Bulstrode's 
 naive way of conciliating piety and worldliness, 
 the nothingness of this life and the desirability of 
 cut glass, the consciousness at once of filthy rags 
 and the best damask, was not a sufficient relief from 
 the weight of her husband's invariable seriousness. 
 The Vincys' house, with all its faults, was the pleas- 
 anter by contrast; besides, it nourished Eosamond, 
 — sweet to look at as a half -opened blush-rose, 
 and adorned with accomplishments for the refined 
 amusement of man. 
 
 But he made some enemies, other than medical, 
 by his success with Miss Vincy. One evening he 
 came into the drawing-room rather late, when 
 several other visitors were there. The card-table 
 had drawn off the elders, and Mr. Ned Plymdale 
 (one of the good matches in Middlemarch, though 
 not one of its leading minds) was in tMe-a-tete with 
 Eosamond. He had brought the last " Keepsake, " 
 the gorgeous watered-silk publication which marked 
 modern progress at that time ; and he considered 
 himself very fortunate that he could be the first to 
 look over it with her, dwelling on the ladies and 
 gentlemen with shiny copper-plate cheeks and 
 copper-plate smiles, and pointing to comic verses
 
 372 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 as capital and sentimental stories as interesting. 
 Eosamond was gracious, and Mr. Ned was satisfied 
 that he had the very best thing in art and litera- 
 ture as a medium for " paying addresses, " — the 
 very thing to please a nice girl. He had also rea- 
 sons, deep rather than ostensible, for being sat- 
 isfied with his own appearance. To superficial 
 observers his chin had too vanishing au aspect, 
 looking as if it were being gradually reabsorbed. 
 And it did indeed cause him some difficulty about 
 the fit of his satin stocks, for which chins were at 
 that time useful. 
 
 " I think the Honourable Mrs. S. is something 
 like you," said Mr. Ned. He kept the book open 
 at the bewitching portrait, and looked at it rather 
 languishingly. 
 
 " He-r back is very large ; she seems to have sat 
 for that, " said Eosamond, not meaning any satire, 
 but thinking how red young Plymdale's hands 
 were, and wondering why Lydgate did not come. 
 She went on with her tatting all the while. 
 
 " I did not say she was as beautiful as you are, " 
 said Mr. Ned, venturing to look from the portrait 
 to its rival. 
 
 " I suspect you of being an adroit flatterer, " said 
 Eosamond, feeling sure that she should have to 
 reject this young gentleman a second time. 
 
 But now Lydgate came in ; the book was closed 
 before he reached Eosamond 's corner, and as he 
 took his seat with easy confidence on the other side 
 of her, young Plymdale's jaw fell like a barometer 
 towards the cheerless side of change. Eosamond 
 enjoyed not only Lydgate's presence but its effect: 
 she liked to excite jealousy. 
 
 " What a late comer you are ! " she said, as they
 
 WAITING FOR DEATH. 373 
 
 shook hands, " Mamma had given you up a little 
 while ago. How do you find Fred ? " 
 
 " As usual \ going on well, but slowly. I want 
 him to go away, — to Stone Court, for example. 
 But your mamma seenls to have some objection. " 
 
 " Poor fellow ! " said Eosamond, prettily. " You 
 will see Fred so changed, " she added, turning to 
 the other suitor ; " we have looked to Mr. Lydgate 
 as our guardian angel during this illness. " 
 
 Mr. Ned smiled nervously ; while Lydgate, draw- 
 ing the " Keepsake" towards him and opening it, 
 gave a short scornful laugh and tossed up his chin, 
 as if in wonderment at human folly. 
 
 " What are you laughing at so profanely ? " said 
 Eosamond, with bland neutrality. 
 
 " I wonder which would turn out to be the 
 silliest, — the engravings or the writing here, " 
 said Lydgate, in his most convinced tone, while 
 he turned over the pages quickly, seeming to see 
 all through the book in no time, and showing his 
 large white hands to much advantage, as Eosamond 
 thought. " Do look at this bridegroom coming out 
 of church : did you ever see such a 'sugared inven- 
 tion, ' — as the Elizabethans used to say ? Did any 
 haberdasher ever look so smirking ? Yet I will 
 answer for it the story makes him one of the first 
 gentlemen in the land. " 
 
 " You are so severe, I am frightened at you, " 
 said Eosamond, keeping her amusement duly 
 moderate. Poor young Plymdale had lingered 
 with admiration over this very engraving, and his 
 spirit was stirred 
 
 " There are a great many celebrated people writ- 
 ing in the 'Keepsake,' at all events," he said, in a 
 tone at once piqued and timid. " This is the first 
 time I have heard it called silly. "
 
 374 MIDDLEMARCH. 
 
 " I think I shall turn round on you and accuse 
 you of being a Goth, " said Eosamond, looking at 
 Lydgate with a smile. " I suspect you know 
 nothing about Lady Blessington and L. E. L. " 
 Eosamond herself was not without relish for these 
 writers, but she did not readily commit herself 
 by admiration, and was alive to the slightest hint 
 that anything was not, according to Lydgate, in 
 the very highest taste. 
 
 " But Sir Walter Scott, — I suppose Mr. Lydgate 
 knows him, " said young Plymdale, a little cheered 
 by this advantage. 
 
 " Oh, I read no literature now, " said Lydgate, 
 shutting the book, and pushing it away. " I read 
 so much when I was a lad that I suppose it will 
 last me all my life. I used to know Scott's poems 
 by heart. " 
 
 " I should like to know when you left off, " said 
 Eosamond, " because then I might be sure that I 
 knew something which you did not know. " 
 
 " Mr. Lydgate would say that was not worth 
 knowing, " said Mr. Ned, purposely caustic. 
 
 "On the contrary," said Lydgate, showing no 
 smart, but smiling with exasperating confidence at 
 Eosamond. " It would be worth knowing by the 
 fact that Miss Vincy could tell it me. " 
 
 Young Plymdale soon went to look at the whist- 
 playing, thinking that Lydgate was one of the 
 most conceited, unpleasant fellows it had ever been 
 his ill-fortune to meet. 
 
 " How rash you are ! " said Eosamond, inwardly 
 delighted. " Do you see that you have given 
 offence ? " 
 
 "What! is it Mr. Plymdale 's book? I am 
 sorry. I didn't think about it."
 
 WAITING FOR DEATH. 375 
 
 " I shall begin to admit what you said of your- 
 self when you first came here, — that you are a 
 bear, and want teaching by the birds. " 
 
 " Well, there is a bird who can teach me what 
 she will. Don't I listen to her willingly ? " 
 
 To Eosamond it seemed as if she and Lydgate 
 were as good as engaged. That they were some 
 time to be engaged had long been an idea in her 
 mind; and ideas, we know, tend to a more solid 
 kind of existence, the necessary materials being at 
 hand. It is true, Lydgate had the counter-idea of 
 remaining unengaged ; but this was a mere nega- 
 tive, a shadow cast by other resolves which them- 
 selves were capable of shrinking. Circumstance 
 was almost sure to be on the side of Eosamond 's 
 idea, which had a shaping activity and looked 
 through watchful blue eyes, whereas Lydgate 's lay 
 blind and unconcerned as a jelly-fish which gets 
 melted without knowing it. 
 
 That evening when he went home, he looked at 
 his phials to see how a process of maceration was 
 going on, with undisturbed interest; and he wrote 
 out his daily notes with as much precision as 
 usual. The reveries from which it was difficult 
 for him to detach himself were ideal constructions 
 of something else than Eosamond 's virtues, and 
 the primitive tissue was still his fair unknown. 
 Moreover, he was beginning to feel some zest for 
 the growing though half-suppressed feud between 
 him and the other medical men, which was likely 
 to become more manifest, now that Bulstrode's 
 method of managing the new hospital was about to 
 be declared ; and there were various inspiriting 
 signs that his non-acceptance by some of Peacock's 
 patients might be counterbalanced by the impres-
 
 376 MIDDLEMAKCH. 
 
 sion he had produced in other quarters. Only a 
 few days later, when he had happened to overtake 
 Eosamond on the Lowick road and had got down 
 from his horse to walk by her side until he had 
 quite protected her from a passing drove, he had 
 been stopped by a servant on horseback with a 
 message calling him in to a house of some impor- 
 tance where Peacock had never attended ; and it 
 was the second instance of this kind. The servant 
 was Sir James Chettam's, and the house was 
 Lowick Manor. 
 
 END OF VOL. I.

 
 
 
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