"Hard students are commonly troubled with gowts, catarrhs, rheums, cachexia, bradypepsia, bad eyes, stone, and collick, crudities, oppilations, vertigo1, winds, consumptions, and all such diseases as come by over-much sitting: they are most part lean, dry, ill-colored . . . and all through immoderate pains and extraordinary studies. If you will not believe the truth of this, look upon great Tostatus and Thomas Aquainas' works; and tell me whether those men took pains."--BURTON'S Anatomy2 of Melancholy3, P. I, s. 2.
This was Mr. Casaubon's letter.
MY DEAR MISS BROOKE,--I have your guardian4'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 possibility of my becoming acquainted with you. For in the first hour of meeting you, I had an impression of your eminent5 and perhaps exclusive fitness to supply that need (connected, I may say, with such activity of the affections as even the preoccupations of a work too special to be abdicated6 could not uninterruptedly dissimulate); and each succeeding opportunity for observation has given the impression an added depth by convincing me more emphatically of that fitness which I had preconceived, and thus evoking8 more decisively those affections to which I have but now referred. Our conversations have, I think, made sufficiently9 clear to you the tenor10 of my life and purposes: a tenor unsuited, I am aware, to the commoner order of minds. But I have discerned in you an elevation11 of thought and a capability12 of devotedness13, 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 notably14 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 labors15 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 solitariness17 by a matrimonial union.
Such, my dear Miss Brooke, is the accurate statement 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 presentiment18. To be accepted by you as your husband and the earthly guardian of your welfare, I should regard as the highest of providential gifts. In return I can at least offer you an affection hitherto unwasted, and the faithful consecration19 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 arduous20 labor16 than usual. But in this order of experience I am still young, and in looking forward to an unfavorable possibility I cannot but feel that resignation to solitude21 will be more difficult after the temporary illumination of hope. In any case, I shall remain, Yours with sincere devotion, EDWARD CASAUBON.
Dorothea trembled while she read this letter; then she fell on her knees, buried her face, and sobbed22. 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 possessed24 by the fact that a fuller life was opening before her: she was a neophyte25 about to enter on a higher grade of initiation26. She was going to have room for the energies which stirred uneasily under the dimness and pressure of her own ignorance and the petty peremptoriness27 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 reverence28. This hope was not unmixed with the glow of proud delight--the joyous29 maiden30 surprise that she was chosen by the man whom her admiration31 had chosen. All Dorothea's passion was transfused32 through a mind struggling towards an ideal life; the radiance of her transfigured girlhood fell on the first object that came within its level. The impetus33 with which inclination34 became resolution was heightened by those little events of the day which had roused her discontent with the actual conditions of her life.
After dinner, when Celia was playing an "air, with variations," a small kind of tinkling35 which symbolized36 the aesthetic37 part of the young ladies' education, Dorothea went up to her room to answer Mr. Casaubon's letter. Why should she defer38 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 illegible39. She piqued40 herself on writing a hand in which each letter was distinguishable without any large range of conjecture41, and she meant to make much use of this accomplishment42, to save Mr. Casaubon's eyes. Three times she wrote.
MY DEAR MR. CASAUBON,--I am very grateful to you for loving me, and thinking me worthy43 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 devotedly44, 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, during which he pushed about various objects on his writing-table, and finally stood with his back to the fire, his glasses on his nose, looking at the address of Dorothea's letter.
"Have you thought enough about 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 entirely45 new to me."
"Ah!--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 Dorothea, rather impetuously.
Mr. Brooke threw his head and shoulders backward as if some one had thrown a light missile at him. Dorothea immediately felt some self-rebuke, and said--
"I mean in the light of a husband. He is very kind, I think--really very good about the cottages. A well-meaning man."
"But you must have a scholar, and that sort of thing? Well, it lies a little in our family. I had it myself--that love of knowledge, and going into everything--a little too much--it took me too far; though that sort of thing doesn't often run in the female-line; or it runs underground like the rivers in Greece, you know--it comes out in the sons. Clever sons, clever mothers. I went a good deal into that, at one time. However, my dear, I have always said that people should do as they like in these things, up to a certain point. I couldn't, as 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 crying 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 disposition47 to recur48 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 proceeding50 in which she was always much the earlier, Dorothea, who was seated on a low stool, unable to occupy herself except in meditation51, said, with the musical intonation52 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 spoke49.
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, without any touch of pathos53.
"No, dear, I am very, very happy," said Dorothea, fervently54.
"So much the better," thought Celia. "But how strangely Dodo goes from one extreme to the other."
The next day, at luncheon55, the butler, handing something to Mr. Brooke, said, "Jonas is come back, sir, and has brought this letter."
Mr. Brooke read the letter, and then, nodding toward Dorothea, said, "Casaubon, my dear: he will be here to dinner; he didn't wait to write more--didn't wait, you know."
It could not seem remarkable56 to Celia that a dinner guest should be announced to her sister beforehand, but, her eyes following the same direction as her uncle's, she was struck with the peculiar57 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 listening. 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 darted59 into her mind. She was seldom taken by surprise in this way, her marvellous quickness in observing a certain order of signs generally preparing her to expect such outward events as she had an interest in. Not that she now imagined Mr. Casaubon to be already an accepted lover: she had only begun to feel disgust at the possibility that anything in Dorothea's mind could tend towards such an issue. Here was something really to vex60 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 mingled61 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-room62; and there Celia observed that Dorothea, instead of settling down with her usual diligent63 interest to some occupation, simply leaned her elbow on an open book and looked out of the window at the great cedar64 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 precipitately65.
Dorothea was in fact thinking that it was desirable for Celia to know of the momentous66 change in Mr. Casaubon's position since he had last been in the house: it did not seem fair to leave her in ignorance of what would necessarily affect her attitude towards him; but it was impossible not to shrink from telling her. Dorothea accused herself of some meanness in this timidity: it was always odious67 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 dread58 the corrosiveness68 of Celia's pretty carnally minded prose. Her reverie was broken, and the difficulty of decision banished69, by Celia's small and rather guttural voice speaking in its usual tone, of a remark aside or a "by the bye."
"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?"
"Really, 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 emphatic7 gravity, "pray don't make any more observations of that kind."
"Why not? They are quite true," returned Celia, who had her reasons for persevering70, 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 hurled71 this light javelin72.
Dorothea's feelings had gathered to an avalanche73, 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 would have had his leg injured, but for her habitual74 care of whatever she held in her hands. She laid the fragile figure down at once, and sat perfectly75 still for a few moments. When she spoke there was a tear gathering76.
"Oh, Dodo, I hope you will be happy." Her sisterly tenderness could not but surmount77 other feelings at this moment, and her fears were the fears of affection.
Dorothea was still hurt and agitated78.
"It is quite decided79, then?" said Celia, in an awed80 under tone. "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 sob23. She never could have thought that she should feel as she did. There was something funereal81 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 subdued82 astonishment83 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 tete-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 an unknown delight (what man would not have been?) at this childlike unrestrained ardor84: he was not surprised (what lover would have been?) that he should be the object of it.
"My dear young lady--Miss Brooke--Dorothea!" 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 desirable, was far indeed from my conception. You have all--nay, more than all--those qualities which I have ever regarded as the characteristic excellences85 of womanhood. The great charm of your sex is its capability of an ardent86 self-sacrificing affection, and herein we see its fitness to round and complete the existence of our own. Hitherto I have known few pleasures save of the severer kind: my satisfactions have been those of the solitary87 student. I have been little disposed to gather flowers that would wither88 in my hand, but now I shall pluck them with eagerness, to place them in your bosom89."
No speech could have been more thoroughly90 honest in its intention: the frigid91 rhetoric92 at the end was as sincere as the bark of a dog, or the cawing of an amorous93 rook. Would it not be rash to conclude that there was no passion behind those sonnets94 to Delia which strike us as the thin music of a mandolin?
Dorothea's faith supplied all that Mr. Casaubon's words seemed to leave unsaid: what believer sees a disturbing omission95 or infelicity? The text, whether of prophet or of poet, expands for whatever we can put into it, and even his bad grammar is sublime96.
"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 persevere97 in any path without your companionship?" said Mr. Casaubon, kissing her candid98 brow, and feeling that heaven had vouchsafed99 him a blessing100 in every way suited to his peculiar wants. He was being unconsciously wrought101 upon by the charms of a nature which was entirely without hidden calculations either for immediate46 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, metaphorically102 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 mansion103, with much land attached to it. The parsonage was inhabited by the curate, who did all the duty except preaching the morning sermon.
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vertigo
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| n.眩晕 | |
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anatomy
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| n.解剖学，解剖；功能，结构，组织 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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abdicated
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| 放弃（职责、权力等）( abdicate的过去式和过去分词 )； 退位，逊位 | |
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emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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evoking
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| 产生，引起，唤起( evoke的现在分词 ) | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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capability
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| n.能力；才能；(pl)可发展的能力或特性等 | |
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devotedness
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notably
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| adv.值得注意地，显著地，尤其地，特别地 | |
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labors
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| v.努力争取(for)( labor的第三人称单数 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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solitariness
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presentiment
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consecration
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arduous
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solitude
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sobbed
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sob
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possessed
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neophyte
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initiation
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peremptoriness
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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joyous
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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admiration
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transfused
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| v.输（血或别的液体）( transfuse的过去式和过去分词 )；渗透；使…被灌输或传达 | |
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impetus
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inclination
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tinkling
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symbolized
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aesthetic
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defer
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illegible
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piqued
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conjecture
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accomplishment
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worthy
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devotedly
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| 专心地； 恩爱地； 忠实地； 一心一意地 | |
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entirely
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immediate
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disposition
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recur
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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proceeding
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meditation
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intonation
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pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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vex
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| vt.使烦恼，使苦恼 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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diligent
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| adj.勤勉的，勤奋的 | |
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cedar
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| n.雪松，香柏(木) | |
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precipitately
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| adv.猛进地 | |
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momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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corrosiveness
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| 侵蚀作用，腐蚀性 | |
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banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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persevering
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| a.坚忍不拔的 | |
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hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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javelin
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| n.标枪，投枪 | |
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avalanche
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| n.雪崩，大量涌来 | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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surmount
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| vt.克服；置于…顶上 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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funereal
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| adj.悲哀的；送葬的 | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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84
ardor
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| n.热情，狂热 | |
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excellences
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| n.卓越( excellence的名词复数 )；（只用于所修饰的名词后）杰出的；卓越的；出类拔萃的 | |
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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wither
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| vt.使凋谢，使衰退，(用眼神气势等)使畏缩；vi.枯萎，衰退，消亡 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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frigid
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| adj.寒冷的，凛冽的；冷淡的；拘禁的 | |
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rhetoric
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| n.修辞学，浮夸之言语 | |
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amorous
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| adj.多情的；有关爱情的 | |
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sonnets
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| n.十四行诗( sonnet的名词复数 ) | |
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omission
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| n.省略，删节；遗漏或省略的事物，冗长 | |
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sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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persevere
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| v.坚持，坚忍，不屈不挠 | |
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candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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vouchsafed
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| v.给予，赐予( vouchsafe的过去式和过去分词 )；允诺 | |
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100
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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101
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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102
metaphorically
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| adv. 用比喻地 | |
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103
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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