Middlemarch, Page 48

  CHAPTER XLVIII

  Surely the golden hours are turning gray And dance no more, and vainly strive to run: I see their white locks streaming in the wind-- Each face is haggard as it looks at me, Slow turning in the constant clasping round Storm-driven.

  Dorothea's distress when she was leaving the church came chiefly fromthe perception that Mr. Casaubon was determined not to speak to hiscousin, and that Will's presence at church had served to mark morestrongly the alienation between them. Will's coming seemed to herquite excusable, nay, she thought it an amiable movement in him towardsa reconciliation which she herself had been constantly wishing for. Hehad probably imagined, as she had, that if Mr. Casaubon and he couldmeet easily, they would shake hands and friendly intercourse mightreturn. But now Dorothea felt quite robbed of that hope. Will wasbanished further than ever, for Mr. Casaubon must have been newlyembittered by this thrusting upon him of a presence which he refused torecognize.

  He had not been very well that morning, suffering from some difficultyin breathing, and had not preached in consequence; she was notsurprised, therefore, that he was nearly silent at luncheon, still lessthat he made no allusion to Will Ladislaw. For her own part she feltthat she could never again introduce that subject. They usually spentapart the hours between luncheon and dinner on a Sunday; Mr. Casaubonin the library dozing chiefly, and Dorothea in her boudoir, where shewas wont to occupy herself with some of her favorite books. There wasa little heap of them on the table in the bow-window--of various sorts,from Herodotus, which she was learning to read with Mr. Casaubon, toher old companion Pascal, and Keble's "Christian Year." But to-dayopened one after another, and could read none of them. Everythingseemed dreary: the portents before the birth of Cyrus--Jewishantiquities--oh dear!--devout epigrams--the sacred chime of favoritehymns--all alike were as flat as tunes beaten on wood: even the springflowers and the grass had a dull shiver in them under the afternoonclouds that hid the sun fitfully; even the sustaining thoughts whichhad become habits seemed to have in them the weariness of long futuredays in which she would still live with them for her sole companions.It was another or rather a fuller sort of companionship that poorDorothea was hungering for, and the hunger had grown from the perpetualeffort demanded by her married life. She was always trying to be whather husband wished, and never able to repose on his delight in what shewas. The thing that she liked, that she spontaneously cared to have,seemed to be always excluded from her life; for if it was only grantedand not shared by her husband it might as well have been denied. AboutWill Ladislaw there had been a difference between them from the first,and it had ended, since Mr. Casaubon had so severely repulsedDorothea's strong feeling about his claims on the family property, byher being convinced that she was in the right and her husband in thewrong, but that she was helpless. This afternoon the helplessness wasmore wretchedly benumbing than ever: she longed for objects who couldbe dear to her, and to whom she could be dear. She longed for workwhich would be directly beneficent like the sunshine and the rain, andnow it appeared that she was to live more and more in a virtual tomb,where there was the apparatus of a ghastly labor producing what wouldnever see the light. Today she had stood at the door of the tomb andseen Will Ladislaw receding into the distant world of warm activity andfellowship--turning his face towards her as he went.

  Books were of no use. Thinking was of no use. It was Sunday, and shecould not have the carriage to go to Celia, who had lately had a baby.There was no refuge now from spiritual emptiness and discontent, andDorothea had to bear her bad mood, as she would have borne a headache.

  After dinner, at the hour when she usually began to read aloud, Mr.Casaubon proposed that they should go into the library, where, he said,he had ordered a fire and lights. He seemed to have revived, and to bethinking intently.

  In the library Dorothea observed that he had newly arranged a row ofhis note-books on a table, and now he took up and put into her hand awell-known volume, which was a table of contents to all the others.

  "You will oblige me, my dear," he said, seating himself, "if instead ofother reading this evening, you will go through this aloud, pencil inhand, and at each point where I say 'mark,' will make a cross with yourpencil. This is the first step in a sifting process which I have longhad in view, and as we go on I shall be able to indicate to you certainprinciples of selection whereby you will, I trust, have an intelligentparticipation in my purpose."

  This proposal was only one more sign added to many since his memorableinterview with Lydgate, that Mr. Casaubon's original reluctance to letDorothea work with him had given place to the contrary disposition,namely, to demand much interest and labor from her.

  After she had read and marked for two hours, he said, "We will take thevolume up-stairs--and the pencil, if you please--and in case ofreading in the night, we can pursue this task. It is not wearisome toyou, I trust, Dorothea?"

  "I prefer always reading what you like best to hear," said Dorothea,who told the simple truth; for what she dreaded was to exert herself inreading or anything else which left him as joyless as ever.

  It was a proof of the force with which certain characteristics inDorothea impressed those around her, that her husband, with all hisjealousy and suspicion, had gathered implicit trust in the integrity ofher promises, and her power of devoting herself to her idea of theright and best. Of late he had begun to feel that these qualities werea peculiar possession for himself, and he wanted to engross them.

  The reading in the night did come. Dorothea in her young weariness hadslept soon and fast: she was awakened by a sense of light, which seemedto her at first like a sudden vision of sunset after she had climbed asteep hill: she opened her eyes and saw her husband wrapped in his warmgown seating himself in the arm-chair near the fire-place where theembers were still glowing. He had lit two candles, expecting thatDorothea would awake, but not liking to rouse her by more direct means.

  "Are you ill, Edward?" she said, rising immediately.

  "I felt some uneasiness in a reclining posture. I will sit here for atime." She threw wood on the fire, wrapped herself up, and said, "Youwould like me to read to you?"

  "You would oblige me greatly by doing so, Dorothea," said Mr. Casaubon,with a shade more meekness than usual in his polite manner. "I amwakeful: my mind is remarkably lucid."

  "I fear that the excitement may be too great for you," said Dorothea,remembering Lydgate's cautions.

  "No, I am not conscious of undue excitement. Thought is easy."Dorothea dared not insist, and she read for an hour or more on the sameplan as she had done in the evening, but getting over the pages withmore quickness. Mr. Casaubon's mind was more alert, and he seemed toanticipate what was coming after a very slight verbal indication,saying, "That will do--mark that"--or "Pass on to the next head--I omitthe second excursus on Crete." Dorothea was amazed to think of thebird-like speed with which his mind was surveying the ground where ithad been creeping for years. At last he said--

  "Close the book now, my dear. We will resume our work to-morrow. Ihave deferred it too long, and would gladly see it completed. But youobserve that the principle on which my selection is made, is to giveadequate, and not disproportionate illustration to each of the thesesenumerated in my introduction, as at present sketched. You haveperceived that distinctly, Dorothea?"

  "Yes," said Dorothea, rather tremulously. She felt sick at heart.

  "And now I think that I can take some repose," said Mr. Casaubon. Helaid down again and begged her to put out the lights. When she hadlain down too, and there was a darkness only broken by a dull glow onthe hearth, he said--

  "Before I sleep, I have a request to make, Dorothea."

  "What is it?" said Dorothea, with dread in her mind.

  "It is that you will let me know, deliberately, whether, in case of mydeath, you will carry out my wishes: whether you will avoid doing whatI should deprecate, and apply yourself to do what I should desire."

  Dorothea was not taken
by surprise: many incidents had been leading herto the conjecture of some intention on her husband's part which mightmake a new yoke for her. She did not answer immediately.

  "You refuse?" said Mr. Casaubon, with more edge in his tone.

  "No, I do not yet refuse," said Dorothea, in a clear voice, the need offreedom asserting itself within her; "but it is too solemn--I think itis not right--to make a promise when I am ignorant what it will bind meto. Whatever affection prompted I would do without promising."

  "But you would use your own judgment: I ask you to obey mine; yourefuse."

  "No, dear, no!" said Dorothea, beseechingly, crushed by opposing fears."But may I wait and reflect a little while? I desire with my wholesoul to do what will comfort you; but I cannot give any pledgesuddenly--still less a pledge to do I know not what."

  "You cannot then confide in the nature of my wishes?"

  "Grant me till to-morrow," said Dorothea, beseechingly.

  "Till to-morrow then," said Mr. Casaubon.

  Soon she could hear that he was sleeping, but there was no more sleepfor her. While she constrained herself to lie still lest she shoulddisturb him, her mind was carrying on a conflict in which imaginationranged its forces first on one side and then on the other. She had nopresentiment that the power which her husband wished to establish overher future action had relation to anything else than his work. But itwas clear enough to her that he would expect her to devote herself tosifting those mixed heaps of material, which were to be the doubtfulillustration of principles still more doubtful. The poor child hadbecome altogether unbelieving as to the trustworthiness of that Keywhich had made the ambition and the labor of her husband's life. Itwas not wonderful that, in spite of her small instruction, her judgmentin this matter was truer than his: for she looked with unbiassedcomparison and healthy sense at probabilities on which he had riskedall his egoism. And now she pictured to herself the days, and months,and years which she must spend in sorting what might be calledshattered mummies, and fragments of a tradition which was itself amosaic wrought from crushed ruins--sorting them as food for a theorywhich was already withered in the birth like an elfin child. Doubtlessa vigorous error vigorously pursued has kept the embryos of trutha-breathing: the quest of gold being at the same time a questioning ofsubstances, the body of chemistry is prepared for its soul, andLavoisier is born. But Mr. Casaubon's theory of the elements whichmade the seed of all tradition was not likely to bruise itself unawaresagainst discoveries: it floated among flexible conjectures no moresolid than those etymologies which seemed strong because of likeness insound until it was shown that likeness in sound made them impossible:it was a method of interpretation which was not tested by the necessityof forming anything which had sharper collisions than an elaboratenotion of Gog and Magog: it was as free from interruption as a plan forthreading the stars together. And Dorothea had so often had to checkher weariness and impatience over this questionable riddle-guessing, asit revealed itself to her instead of the fellowship in high knowledgewhich was to make life worthier! She could understand well enough nowwhy her husband had come to cling to her, as possibly the only hopeleft that his labors would ever take a shape in which they could begiven to the world. At first it had seemed that he wished to keep evenher aloof from any close knowledge of what he was doing; but graduallythe terrible stringency of human need--the prospect of a too speedydeath--

  And here Dorothea's pity turned from her own future to her husband'spast--nay, to his present hard struggle with a lot which had grown outof that past: the lonely labor, the ambition breathing hardly under thepressure of self-distrust; the goal receding, and the heavier limbs;and now at last the sword visibly trembling above him! And had she notwished to marry him that she might help him in his life's labor?--Butshe had thought the work was to be something greater, which she couldserve in devoutly for its own sake. Was it right, even to soothe hisgrief--would it be possible, even if she promised--to work as in atreadmill fruitlessly?

  And yet, could she deny him? Could she say, "I refuse to content thispining hunger?" It would be refusing to do for him dead, what she wasalmost sure to do for him living. If he lived as Lydgate had said hemight, for fifteen years or more, her life would certainly be spent inhelping him and obeying him.

  Still, there was a deep difference between that devotion to the livingand that indefinite promise of devotion to the dead. While he lived,he could claim nothing that she would not still be free to remonstrateagainst, and even to refuse. But--the thought passed through her mindmore than once, though she could not believe in it--might he not meanto demand something more from her than she had been able to imagine,since he wanted her pledge to carry out his wishes without telling herexactly what they were? No; his heart was bound up in his work only:that was the end for which his failing life was to be eked out by hers.

  And now, if she were to say, "No! if you die, I will put no finger toyour work"--it seemed as if she would be crushing that bruised heart.

  For four hours Dorothea lay in this conflict, till she felt ill andbewildered, unable to resolve, praying mutely. Helpless as a childwhich has sobbed and sought too long, she fell into a late morningsleep, and when she waked Mr. Casaubon was already up. Tantripp toldher that he had read prayers, breakfasted, and was in the library.

  "I never saw you look so pale, madam," said Tantripp, a solid-figuredwoman who had been with the sisters at Lausanne.

  "Was I ever high-colored, Tantripp?" said Dorothea, smiling faintly.

  "Well, not to say high-colored, but with a bloom like a Chiny rose.But always smelling those leather books, what can be expected? Do resta little this morning, madam. Let me say you are ill and not able togo into that close library."

  "Oh no, no! let me make haste," said Dorothea. "Mr. Casaubon wants meparticularly."

  When she went down she felt sure that she should promise to fulfil hiswishes; but that would be later in the day--not yet.

  As Dorothea entered the library, Mr. Casaubon turned round from thetable where he had been placing some books, and said--

  "I was waiting for your appearance, my dear. I had hoped to set towork at once this morning, but I find myself under some indisposition,probably from too much excitement yesterday. I am going now to take aturn in the shrubbery, since the air is milder."

  "I am glad to hear that," said Dorothea. "Your mind, I feared, was tooactive last night."

  "I would fain have it set at rest on the point I last spoke of,Dorothea. You can now, I hope, give me an answer."

  "May I come out to you in the garden presently?" said Dorothea, winninga little breathing space in that way.

  "I shall be in the Yew-tree Walk for the next half-hour," said Mr.Casaubon, and then he left her.

  Dorothea, feeling very weary, rang and asked Tantripp to bring her somewraps. She had been sitting still for a few minutes, but not in anyrenewal of the former conflict: she simply felt that she was going tosay "Yes" to her own doom: she was too weak, too full of dread at thethought of inflicting a keen-edged blow on her husband, to do anythingbut submit completely. She sat still and let Tantripp put on herbonnet and shawl, a passivity which was unusual with her, for she likedto wait on herself.

  "God bless you, madam!" said Tantripp, with an irrepressible movementof love towards the beautiful, gentle creature for whom she felt unableto do anything more, now that she had finished tying the bonnet.

  This was too much for Dorothea's highly-strung feeling, and she burstinto tears, sobbing against Tantripp's arm. But soon she checkedherself, dried her eyes, and went out at the glass door into theshrubbery.

  "I wish every book in that library was built into a caticom for yourmaster," said Tantripp to Pratt, the butler, finding him in thebreakfast-room. She had been at Rome, and visited the antiquities, aswe know; and she always declined to call Mr. Casaubon anything but"your master," when speaking to the other servants.

  Pratt laughed. He liked his master very well, but he liked Tantrippbett
er.

  When Dorothea was out on the gravel walks, she lingered among thenearer clumps of trees, hesitating, as she had done once before, thoughfrom a different cause. Then she had feared lest her effort atfellowship should be unwelcome; now she dreaded going to the spot whereshe foresaw that she must bind herself to a fellowship from which sheshrank. Neither law nor the world's opinion compelled her tothis--only her husband's nature and her own compassion, only the idealand not the real yoke of marriage. She saw clearly enough the wholesituation, yet she was fettered: she could not smite the stricken soulthat entreated hers. If that were weakness, Dorothea was weak. Butthe half-hour was passing, and she must not delay longer. When sheentered the Yew-tree Walk she could not see her husband; but the walkhad bends, and she went, expecting to catch sight of his figure wrappedin a blue cloak, which, with a warm velvet cap, was his outer garmenton chill days for the garden. It occurred to her that he might beresting in the summer-house, towards which the path diverged a little.Turning the angle, she could see him seated on the bench, close to astone table. His arms were resting on the table, and his brow wasbowed down on them, the blue cloak being dragged forward and screeninghis face on each side.

  "He exhausted himself last night," Dorothea said to herself, thinkingat first that he was asleep, and that the summer-house was too damp aplace to rest in. But then she remembered that of late she had seenhim take that attitude when she was reading to him, as if he found iteasier than any other; and that he would sometimes speak, as well aslisten, with his face down in that way. She went into the summerhouseand said, "I am come, Edward; I am ready."

  He took no notice, and she thought that he must be fast asleep. Shelaid her hand on his shoulder, and repeated, "I am ready!" Still he wasmotionless; and with a sudden confused fear, she leaned down to him,took off his velvet cap, and leaned her cheek close to his head, cryingin a distressed tone--

  "Wake, dear, wake! Listen to me. I am come to answer." But Dorotheanever gave her answer.

  Later in the day, Lydgate was seated by her bedside, and she wastalking deliriously, thinking aloud, and recalling what had gonethrough her mind the night before. She knew him, and called him by hisname, but appeared to think it right that she should explain everythingto him; and again, and again, begged him to explain everything to herhusband.

  "Tell him I shall go to him soon: I am ready to promise. Only,thinking about it was so dreadful--it has made me ill. Not very ill.I shall soon be better. Go and tell him."

  But the silence in her husband's ear was never more to be broken.