"`Dime; no ves aquel caballero que hacia nosotros viene sobre un
caballo rucio rodado que trae puesto en la cabeza un yelmo de oro?'
`Lo que veo y columbro,' respondio Sancho, `no es sino un hombre
sobre un as no pardo como el mio, que trae sobre la cabeza una cosa
que relumbra.' `Pues ese es el yelmo de Mambrino,' dijo Don
Quijote."
—CERVANTES.
"`Seest thou not yon cavalier who cometh toward us on a
dapple-gray steed, and weareth a golden helmet?' `What I see,'
answered Sancho, `is nothing but a man on a gray ass like my own,
who carries something shiny on his head.' `Just so,' answered Don
Quixote: `and that resplendent object is the helmet of
Mambrino.'"
"Sir Humphry Davy?" said Mr. Brooke, over the soup, in his easy
smiling way, taking up Sir James Chettam's remark that he was
studying Davy's Agricultural Chemistry. "Well, now, Sir Humphry
Davy; I dined with him years ago at Cartwright's, and Wordsworth
was there too—the poet Wordsworth, you know. Now there was
something singular. I was at Cambridge when Wordsworth was there,
and I never met him—and I dined with him twenty years afterwards at
Cartwright's. There's an oddity in things, now. But Davy was there:
he was a poet too. Or, as I may say, Wordsworth was poet one, and
Davy was poet two. That was true in every sense, you know."
Dorothea felt a little more uneasy than usual. In the beginning
of dinner, the party being small and the room still, these motes
from the mass of a magistrate's mind fell too noticeably. She
wondered how a man like Mr. Casaubon would support such triviality.
His manners, she thought, were very dignified; the set of his
iron-gray hair and his deep eye-sockets made him resemble the
portrait of Locke. He had the spare form and the pale complexion
which became a student; as different as possible from the blooming
Englishman of the red-whiskered type represented by Sir James
Chettam.
"I am reading the Agricultural Chemistry," said this excellent
baronet, "because I am going to take one of the farms into my own
hands, and see if something cannot be done in setting a good
pattern of farming among my tenants. Do you approve of that, Miss
Brooke?"
"A great mistake, Chettam," interposed Mr. Brooke, "going into
electrifying your land and that kind of thing, and making a parlor
of your cow-house. It won't do. I went into science a great deal
myself at one time; but I saw it would not do. It leads to
everything; you can let nothing alone. No, no—see that your tenants
don't sell their straw, and that kind of thing; and give them
draining-tiles, you know. But your fancy farming will not do—the
most expensive sort of whistle you can buy: you may as well keep a
pack of hounds."
"Surely," said Dorothea, "it is better to spend money in finding
out how men can make the most of the land which supports them all,
than in keeping dogs and horses only to gallop over it. It is not a
sin to make yourself poor in performing experiments for the good of
all."
She spoke with more energy than is expected of so young a lady,
but Sir James had appealed to her. He was accustomed to do so, and
she had often thought that she could urge him to many good actions
when he was her brother-in-law.
Mr. Casaubon turned his eyes very markedly on Dorothea while she
was speaking, and seemed to observe her newly.
"Young ladies don't understand political economy, you know,"
said Mr. Brooke, smiling towards Mr. Casaubon. "I remember when we
were all reading Adam Smith. _There_ is a book, now. I took in all
the new ideas at one time—human perfectibility, now. But some say,
history moves in circles; and that may be very well argued; I have
argued it myself. The fact is, human reason may carry you a little
too far—over the hedge, in fact. It carried me a good way at one
time; but I saw it would not do. I pulled up; I pulled up in time.
But not too hard. I have always been in favor of a little theory:
we must have Thought; else we shall be landed back in the dark
ages. But talking of books, there is Southey's `Peninsular War.' I
am reading that of a morning. You know Southey?"
"No" said Mr. Casaubon, not keeping pace with Mr. Brooke's
impetuous reason, and thinking of the book only. "I have little
leisure for such literature just now. I have been using up my
eyesight on old characters lately; the fact is, I want a reader for
my evenings; but I am fastidious in voices, and I cannot endure
listening to an imperfect reader. It is a misfortune, in some
senses: I feed too much on the inward sources; I live too much with
the dead. My mind is something like the ghost of an ancient,
wandering about the world and trying mentally to construct it as it
used to be, in spite of ruin and confusing changes. But I find it
necessary to use the utmost caution about my eyesight."
This was the first time that Mr. Casaubon had spoken at any
length. He delivered himself with precision, as if he had been
called upon to make a public statement; and the balanced sing-song
neatness of his speech, occasionally corresponded to by a movement
of his head, was the more conspicuous from its contrast with good
Mr. Brooke's scrappy slovenliness. Dorothea said to herself that
Mr. Casaubon was the most interesting man she had ever seen, not
excepting even Monsieur Liret, the Vaudois clergyman who had given
conferences on the history of the Waldenses. To reconstruct a past
world, doubtless with a view to the highest purposes of truth—what
a work to be in any way present at, to assist in, though only as a
lamp-holder! This elevating thought lifted her above her annoyance
at being twitted with her ignorance of political economy, that
never-explained science which was thrust as an extinguisher over
all her lights.
"But you are fond of riding, Miss Brooke," Sir James presently
took an opportunity of saying. "I should have thought you would
enter a little into the pleasures of hunting. I wish you would let
me send over a chestnut horse for you to try. It has been trained
for a lady. I saw you on Saturday cantering over the hill on a nag
not worthy of you. My groom shall bring Corydon for you every day,
if you will only mention the time."
"Thank you, you are very good. I mean to give up riding. I shall
not ride any more," said Dorothea, urged to this brusque resolution
by a little annoyance that Sir James would be soliciting her
attention when she wanted to give it all to Mr. Casaubon.
"No, that is too hard," said Sir James, in a tone of reproach
that showed strong interest. "Your sister is given to
self-mortification, is she not?" he continued, turning to Celia,
who sat at his right hand.
"I think she is," said Celia, feeling afraid lest she should say
something that would not please her sister, and blushing as
prettily as possible above her necklace. "She likes giving up."
"If that were true, Celia, my giving-up would be
self-indulgence, not self-mortification. But there may be good
reasons for choosing not to do what is very agreeable," said
Dorothea.
Mr. Brooke was speaking at the same time, but it was evident
that Mr. Casaubon was observing Dorothea, and she was aware of
it.
"Exactly," said Sir James. "You give up from some high, generous
motive."
"No, indeed, not exactly. I did not say that of myself,"
answered Dorothea, reddening. Unlike Celia, she rarely blushed, and
only from high delight or anger. At this moment she felt angry with
the perverse Sir James. Why did he not pay attention to Celia, and
leave her to listen to Mr. Casaubon?—if that learned man would only
talk, instead of allowing himself to be talked to by Mr. Brooke,
who was just then informing him that the Reformation either meant
something or it did not, that he himself was a Protestant to the
core, but that Catholicism was a fact; and as to refusing an acre
of your ground for a Romanist chapel, all men needed the bridle of
religion, which, properly speaking, was the dread of a
Hereafter.
"I made a great study of theology at one time," said Mr. Brooke,
as if to explain the insight just manifested. "I know something of
all schools. I knew Wilberforce in his best days. Do you know
Wilberforce?"
Mr. Casaubon said, "No."
"Well, Wilberforce was perhaps not enough of a thinker; but if I
went into Parliament, as I have been asked to do, I should sit on
the independent bench, as Wilberforce did, and work at
philanthropy."
Mr. Casaubon bowed, and observed that it was a wide field.
"Yes," said Mr. Brooke, with an easy smile, "but I have
documents. I began a long while ago to collect documents. They want
arranging, but when a question has struck me, I have written to
somebody and got an answer. I have documents at my back. But now,
how do you arrange your documents?"
"In pigeon-holes partly," said Mr. Casaubon, with rather a
startled air of effort.
"Ah, pigeon-holes will not do. I have tried pigeon-holes, but
everything gets mixed in pigeon-holes: I never know whether a paper
is in A or Z."
"I wish you would let me sort your papers for you, uncle," said
Dorothea. "I would letter them all, and then make a list of
subjects under each letter."
Mr. Casaubon gravely smiled approval, and said to Mr. Brooke,
"You have an excellent secretary at hand, you perceive."
"No, no," said Mr. Brooke, shaking his head; "I cannot let young
ladies meddle with my documents. Young ladies are too flighty."
Dorothea felt hurt. Mr. Casaubon would think that her uncle had
some special reason for delivering this opinion, whereas the remark
lay in his mind as lightly as the broken wing of an insect among
all the other fragments there, and a chance current had sent it
alighting on _her_.
When the two girls were in the drawing-room alone, Celia
said—
"How very ugly Mr. Casaubon is!"
"Celia! He is one of the most distinguished-looking men I ever
saw. He is remarkably like the portrait of Locke. He has the same
deep eye-sockets."
"Had Locke those two white moles with hairs on them?"
"Oh, I dare say! when people of a certain sort looked at him,"
said Dorothea, walking away a little.
"Mr. Casaubon is so sallow."
"All the better. I suppose you admire a man with the complexion
of a cochon de lait."
"Dodo!" exclaimed Celia, looking after her in surprise. "I never
heard you make such a comparison before."
"Why should I make it before the occasion came? It is a good
comparison: the match is perfect."
Miss Brooke was clearly forgetting herself, and Celia thought
so.
"I wonder you show temper, Dorothea."
"It is so painful in you, Celia, that you will look at human
beings as if they were merely animals with a toilet, and never see
the great soul in a man's face."
"Has Mr. Casaubon a great soul?" Celia was not without a touch
of naive malice.
"Yes, I believe he has," said Dorothea, with the full voice of
decision. "Everything I see in him corresponds to his pamphlet on
Biblical Cosmology."
"He talks very little," said Celia
"There is no one for him to talk to."
Celia thought privately, "Dorothea quite despises Sir James
Chettam; I believe she would not accept him." Celia felt that this
was a pity. She had never been deceived as to the object of the
baronet's interest. Sometimes, indeed, she had reflected that Dodo
would perhaps not make a husband happy who had not her way of
looking at things; and stifled in the depths of her heart was the
feeling that her sister was too religious for family comfort.
Notions and scruples were like spilt needles, making one afraid of
treading, or sitting down, or even eating.
When Miss Brooke was at the tea-table, Sir James came to sit
down by her, not having felt her mode of answering him at all
offensive. Why should he? He thought it probable that Miss Brooke
liked him, and manners must be very marked indeed before they cease
to be interpreted by preconceptions either confident or
distrustful. She was thoroughly charming to him, but of course he
theorized a little about his attachment. He was made of excellent
human dough, and had the rare merit of knowing that his talents,
even if let loose, would not set the smallest stream in the county
on fire: hence he liked the prospect of a wife to whom he could
say, "What shall we do?" about this or that; who could help her
husband out with reasons, and would also have the property
qualification for doing so. As to the excessive religiousness
alleged against Miss Brooke, he had a very indefinite notion of
what it consisted in, and thought that it would die out with
marriage. In short, he felt himself to be in love in the right
place, and was ready to endure a great deal of predominance, which,
after all, a man could always put down when he liked. Sir James had
no idea that he should ever like to put down the predominance of
this handsome girl, in whose cleverness he delighted. Why not? A
man's mind—what there is of it—has always the advantage of being
masculine,—as the smallest birch-tree is of a higher kind than the
most soaring palm,—and even his ignorance is of a sounder quality.
Sir James might not have originated this estimate; but a kind
Providence furnishes the limpest personality with a little gunk or
starch in the form of tradition.
"Let me hope that you will rescind that resolution about the
horse, Miss Brooke," said the persevering admirer. "I assure you,
riding is the most healthy of exercises."
"I am aware of it," said Dorothea, coldly. "I think it would do
Celia good—if she would take to it."
"But you are such a perfect horsewoman."
"Excuse me; I have had very little practice, and I should be
easily thrown."
"Then that is a reason for more practice. Every lady ought to be
a perfect horsewoman, that she may accompany her husband."
"You see how widely we differ, Sir James. I have made up my mind
that I ought not to be a perfect horsewoman, and so I should never
correspond to your pattern of a lady." Dorothea looked straight
before her, and spoke with cold brusquerie, very much with the air
of a handsome boy, in amusing contrast with the solicitous
amiability of her admirer.
"I should like to know your reasons for this cruel resolution.
It is not possible that you should think horsemanship wrong."
"It is quite possible that I should think it wrong for me."
"Oh, why?" said Sir James, in a tender tone of remonstrance.
Mr. Casaubon had come up to the table, teacup in hand, and was
listening.
"We must not inquire too curiously into motives," he interposed,
in his measured way. "Miss Brooke knows that they are apt to become
feeble in the utterance: the aroma is mixed with the grosser air.
We must keep the germinating grain away from the light."
Dorothea colored with pleasure, and looked up gratefully to the
speaker. Here was a man who could understand the higher inward
life, and with whom there could be some spiritual communion; nay,
who could illuminate principle with the widest knowledge a man
whose learning almost amounted to a proof of whatever he
believed!
Dorothea's inferences may seem large; but really life could
never have gone on at any period but for this liberal allowance of
conclusions, which has facilitated marriage under the difficulties
of civilization. Has any one ever pinched into its pilulous
smallness the cobweb of pre-matrimonial acquaintanceship?
"Certainly," said good Sir James. "Miss Brooke shall not be
urged to tell reasons she would rather be silent upon. I am sure
her reasons would do her honor."
He was not in the least jealous of the interest with which
Dorothea had looked up at Mr. Casaubon: it never occurred to him
that a girl to whom he was meditating an offer of marriage could
care for a dried bookworm towards fifty, except, indeed, in a
religious sort of way, as for a clergyman of some distinction.
However, since Miss Brooke had become engaged in a conversation
with Mr. Casaubon about the Vaudois clergy, Sir James betook
himself to Celia, and talked to her about her sister; spoke of a
house in town, and asked whether Miss Brooke disliked London. Away
from her sister, Celia talked quite easily, and Sir James said to
himself that the second Miss Brooke was certainly very agreeable as
well as pretty, though not, as some people pretended, more clever
and sensible than the elder sister. He felt that he had chosen the
one who was in all respects the superior; and a man naturally likes
to look forward to having the best. He would be the very Mawworm of
bachelors who pretended not to expect it.