"Nous causames longtemps; elle etait simple et bonne. Ne sachant pas le mal, elle faisait le bien; Des richesses du coeur elle me fit l'aumone, Et tout1 en ecoutant comme le coeur se donne, Sans oser y penser je lui donnai le mien2; Elle emporta ma vie, et n'en sut jamais rien." --ALFRED DE MUSSET.
Will Ladislaw was delightfully3 agreeable at dinner the next day, and gave no opportunity for Mr. Casaubon to show disapprobation. On the contrary it seemed to Dorothea that Will had a happier way of drawing her husband into conversation and of deferentially4 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 Rome, 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 Middleton concerning the relations of Judaism and Catholicism; and passed easily to a half-enthusiastic half-playful picture of the enjoyment5 he got out of the very miscellaneousness of Rome, which made the mind flexible with constant comparison, and saved you from seeing the world's ages as a set of box-like partitions without vital connection. Mr. Casaubon's studies, Will observed, 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 Rome had given him quite a new sense of history as a whole: the fragments stimulated6 his imagination and made him constructive7. Then occasionally, 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 judgment8 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 spoke9 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 labors10 in the Library would be suspended for a couple of days, and that after a brief renewal12 he should have no further reason for staying in Rome, encouraged Will to urge that Mrs. Casaubon should not go away without seeing a studio or two. Would not Mr. Casaubon 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 that Will should come on the morrow and drive with them.
Will could not omit Thorwaldsen, a living celebrity13 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 Christian14 art, one of those who had not only revived but expanded that grand conception of supreme15 events as mysteries at which the successive 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. Naumann has been painting the Saints drawing the Car of the Church, and I have been making a sketch16 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 meaning. 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 lashing17 on the harnessed dynasties. In my opinion, that is a good mythical18 interpretation19." Will here looked at Mr. Casaubon, who received this offhand20 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?"
"Oh yes," said Will, laughing, "and migrations21 of races and clearings of forests--and America 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 furtively22 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 industriously23, but no model was present; his pictures were advantageously arranged, and his own plain vivacious24 person set off by a dove-colored blouse and a maroon25 velvet26 cap, so that everything was as fortunate as if he had expected the beautiful young English lady exactly at that time.
The painter in his confident English gave little dissertations27 on his finished and unfinished subjects, seeming to observe Mr. Casaubon as much as he did Dorothea. Will burst in here and there with ardent28 words of praise, marking out particular merits in his friend's work; and Dorothea felt that she was getting quite new notions as to the significance of Madonnas seated under inexplicable29 canopied30 thrones with the simple country as a background, and of saints with architectural models in their hands, or knives accidentally wedged in their skulls31. Some things which had seemed monstrous32 to her were gathering33 intelligibility34 and even a natural meaning: but all this was apparently35 a branch of knowledge in which Mr. Casaubon had not interested himself.
"I think I would rather feel that painting is beautiful than have to read it as an enigma36; 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 opprobrious37 word!"
"Is that true?" said Dorothea, turning her sincere eyes on Naumann, who made a slight grimace38 and said--
"Oh, he does not mean it seriously with painting. His walk must be belles-lettres. That is wi-ide."
Naumann's pronunciation of the vowel39 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 judicious40 severity.
The respect was not diminished when Naumann, after 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 invaluable41 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. Casaubon, 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 for the angelical doctor, I shall feel honored. That is to say, if the operation will not be a lengthy42 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 miraculous43 voice pronouncing Mr. Casaubon the wisest and worthiest44 among the sons of men. In that case her tottering45 faith would have become firm again.
Naumann's apparatus46 was at hand in wonderful completeness, and the sketch went on at once as well as the conversation. Dorothea sat down and subsided47 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 Rome, 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 gratitude48 of wasps49 and the honorable susceptibility of sparrows, and was proportionately indignant when their baseness was made manifest.
The adroit50 artist was asking Mr. Casaubon questions about English polities, 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 vented51 those adjuring52 interjections which imply that admiration53 is too strong for syntax; and Naumann said in a tone of piteous regret--
"Ah--now--if I could but have had more--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 entreatingly54 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 condescension55. "Having given up the interior of my head to idleness, it is as well that the exterior56 should work in this way."
"You are unspeakably good--now I am happy!" said Naumann, and then went on in German to Will, pointing here and there to the sketch as if he were considering that. Putting it aside for a moment, he looked round vaguely57, as if seeking some occupation for his visitors, and afterwards turning to Mr. Casaubon, said--
"Perhaps the beautiful bride, the gracious lady, would not be unwilling58 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 affected59 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!"
Will was divided between the inclination60 to fall at the Saint's feet and kiss her robe, and the temptation to knock Naumann down while he was adjusting her arm. All this was impudence61 and desecration62, and he repented63 that he had brought her.
The artist was diligent64, 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 displeasing65 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 above. 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 worthy66 picture of it; so about the Santa Clara the arrangement was conditional67.
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 Will joined, but with a difference. No sooner did Naumann mention any detail of Dorothea's beauty, than Will got exasperated68 at his presumption69: 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 irritable70. And yet, when after some resistance he had consented to take the Casaubons to his friend's studio, he had been allured71 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 mere72 bodily prettiness were not applicable to her. (Certainly all Tipton and its neighborhood, 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, Naumann. 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 scholastic73 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 pedantic74 coxcomb," said Will, with gnashing impetuosity. His obligations to Mr. Casaubon were not known to his hearer, but Will himself was thinking of them, and wishing that he could discharge them all by a check.
Naumann gave a shrug75 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 concentrated on seeing Dorothea when she was alone. He only wanted her to take more emphatic76 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 impatient under that open ardent good-will, reach 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 descending77 from her high place. That was precisely78 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 beseeching79 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 longing80 to say damaging things about him was perhaps not the less tormenting81 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 eligible82 time was the middle of the day, when Mr. Casaubon would not be at home.
Dorothea, who had not been made aware that her former reception of Will had displeased83 her husband, had no hesitation84 about seeing him, especially 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 bracelet85 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 exquisitely86 neat. And the color is fine: it will just suit you."
"Oh, they are for my sister, who has quite a different complexion87. 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, frankly88, I don't think them a great object in life," said Dorothea
"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 somehow 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 fanaticism89 of sympathy," said Will, impetuously. "You might say the same of landscape, of poetry, of all refinement90. If you carried it out you ought to be miserable91 in your own goodness, and turn evil that you might have no advantage over others. The best piety92 is to enjoy--when you can. You are doing the most then to save the earth's character as an agreeable planet. And 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 anything else. Would you turn all the youth of the world into a tragic93 chorus, wailing94 and moralizing over misery95? I suspect that you have some false belief in the virtues96 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, melancholy97 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 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 consecration98 of ugliness rather than beauty. The painting and sculpture may be wonderful, but the feeling is often low and brutal99, 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 toiled100 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 Rome that most of our lives would look much uglier and more bungling101 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, energetically, with a quick shake of the head habitual102 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 Lowick: you will be buried alive. It makes me savage103 to think of it! I would rather never have seen you than think of you with such a prospect104."
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 ardor105 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 cadence106, and Will did not know what to say, since it would not be useful for him to embrace her slippers107, 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 retract108."
"I mean what you said about the necessity of knowing German--I mean, for the subjects that Mr. Casaubon is engaged in. I have been thinking about it; and it seems to me that with Mr. Casaubon's learning he must have before him the same materials as German scholars--has he not?" Dorothea's timidity was due to an indistinct consciousness 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 profess109 to have more than second-hand110 knowledge there."
"But there are very valuable books about antiquities111 which were written a long while ago by scholars who knew nothing about these modern things; and they are still used. Why should Mr. Casaubon's not be valuable, like theirs?" said Dorothea, with more remonstrant energy. She was impelled112 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 making 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 correcting 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. "If it were as you say, what could be sadder than so much ardent labor11 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 labor 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. Casaubon: it would be at best a pensioner's eulogy113."
"Pray excuse me," said Dorothea, coloring deeply. "I am aware, as you say, that I am in fault in having introduced the subject. Indeed, I am wrong altogether. Failure after long perseverance114 is much grander than never to have a striving good enough to be called a failure."
"I quite agree with you," said Will, determined115 to change the situation-- "so much so that I have made up my mind not to run that risk of never attaining116 a failure. Mr. Casaubon's generosity117 has perhaps been dangerous to me, and I mean to renounce118 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 Dorothea, 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 obstinacy119 and pride enough to serve instead of love, now she has married him," said Will to himself. Aloud he said, rising--
"I shall not see you again."
"Oh, stay till Mr. Casaubon comes," said Dorothea, earnestly. "I am so glad we met in Rome. 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 contented120, 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 devoutly121 in a natural difference of vocation122. If it were not for that belief, I suppose I should be very narrow-- there are so many things, besides painting, that I am quite ignorant of. You would hardly believe how little I have taken in of music and literature, 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 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 passing 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 consciousness in his best moods," said Will, showing such originality123 as we all share with the morning and the spring-time and other endless renewals124.
"I am very glad to hear it," said Dorothea, laughing out her words in a bird-like modulation125, 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 fervor126.
"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 brightness in her eyes, and Will was conscious that his own were obeying a law of nature and filling too. The allusion127 to Mr. Casaubon would have spoiled all if anything at that moment could have spoiled the subduing128 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 little way under the strength of a recurring129 impulse. "Promise me that you will not again, to any one, speak of that subject-- I mean about Mr. Casaubon's writings--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, reddening however. If he never said a cutting word about Mr. Casaubon again and left off receiving favors from him, it would clearly be permissible130 to hate him the more. The poet must know how to hate, says Goethe; and Will was at least ready with that accomplishment131. 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 waived132 the pleasure of any further leave-taking on the morrow, which would be sufficiently133 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 coarse 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 private or public, does not interest us enough to wish for a further remark upon it. So Dorothea had waited.
"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 wandering at once, and to give up his dependence134 on your generosity. He means soon to go back to England, and work his own way. I thought you would consider 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 addict135 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 considered 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 Dorothea, putting her hand on her husband's.
"I had a duty towards him," said Mr. Casaubon, laying his other hand on Dorothea's in conscientious136 acceptance of her caress137, 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, discuss his future course, which it is not ours to determine beyond the limits which I have sufficiently indicated." Dorothea did not mention Will again.
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tout
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mien
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delightfully
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| 大喜，欣然 | |
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deferentially
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enjoyment
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stimulated
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constructive
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judgment
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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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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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12
renewal
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| adj.(契约)延期，续订，更新，复活，重来 | |
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celebrity
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| n.名人，名流；著名，名声，名望 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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17
lashing
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| n.鞭打；痛斥；大量；许多v.鞭打( lash的现在分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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mythical
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| adj.神话的；虚构的；想像的 | |
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19
interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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20
offhand
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| adj.临时，无准备的；随便，马虎的 | |
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21
migrations
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| n.迁移，移居( migration的名词复数 ) | |
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22
furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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23
industriously
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vivacious
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| adj.活泼的，快活的 | |
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25
maroon
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| v.困住，使（人）处于孤独无助之境；n.逃亡黑奴；孤立的人；酱紫色，褐红色；adj.酱紫色的，褐红色的 | |
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26
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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27
dissertations
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| 专题论文，学位论文( dissertation的名词复数 ) | |
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28
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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29
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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30
canopied
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| adj. 遮有天篷的 | |
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31
skulls
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| 颅骨( skull的名词复数 )； 脑袋； 脑子； 脑瓜 | |
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32
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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33
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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34
intelligibility
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| n.可理解性，可理解的事物 | |
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35
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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36
enigma
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| n.谜，谜一样的人或事 | |
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37
opprobrious
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| adj.可耻的，辱骂的 | |
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38
grimace
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| v.做鬼脸，面部歪扭 | |
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39
vowel
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| n.元音；元音字母 | |
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40
judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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41
invaluable
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| adj.无价的，非常宝贵的，极为贵重的 | |
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42
lengthy
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| adj.漫长的，冗长的 | |
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43
miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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44
worthiest
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| 应得某事物( worthy的最高级 )； 值得做某事； 可尊敬的； 有（某人或事物）的典型特征 | |
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45
tottering
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| adj.蹒跚的，动摇的v.走得或动得不稳( totter的现在分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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46
apparatus
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| n.装置，器械；器具，设备 | |
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47
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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48
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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49
wasps
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| 黄蜂( wasp的名词复数 )； 胡蜂； 易动怒的人； 刻毒的人 | |
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50
adroit
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| adj.熟练的，灵巧的 | |
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51
vented
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| 表达，发泄（感情，尤指愤怒）( vent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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52
adjuring
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| v.（以起誓或诅咒等形式）命令要求( adjure的现在分词 )；祈求；恳求 | |
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53
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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54
entreatingly
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| 哀求地，乞求地 | |
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55
condescension
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| n.自以为高人一等，贬低(别人) | |
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56
exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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57
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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58
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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59
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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60
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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61
impudence
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| n.厚颜无耻；冒失；无礼 | |
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62
desecration
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| n. 亵渎神圣, 污辱 | |
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63
repented
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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64
diligent
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| adj.勤勉的，勤奋的 | |
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65
displeasing
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| 不愉快的，令人发火的 | |
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66
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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67
conditional
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| adj.条件的，带有条件的 | |
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68
exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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69
presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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70
irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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71
allured
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| 诱引，吸引( allure的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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72
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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73
scholastic
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| adj.学校的，学院的，学术上的 | |
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74
pedantic
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| adj.卖弄学问的；迂腐的 | |
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75
shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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76
emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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77
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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78
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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79
beseeching
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| adj.恳求似的v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的现在分词 ) | |
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80
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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81
tormenting
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| 使痛苦的，使苦恼的 | |
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82
eligible
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| adj.有条件被选中的；(尤指婚姻等)合适(意)的 | |
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83
displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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84
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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85
bracelet
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| n.手镯，臂镯 | |
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86
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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87
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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88
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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89
fanaticism
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| n.狂热，盲信 | |
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90
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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91
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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92
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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93
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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94
wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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95
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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96
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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97
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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98
consecration
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| n.供献，奉献，献祭仪式 | |
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99
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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100
toiled
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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101
bungling
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| adj.笨拙的，粗劣的v.搞糟，完不成( bungle的现在分词 )；笨手笨脚地做；失败；完不成 | |
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102
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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103
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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104
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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105
ardor
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| n.热情，狂热 | |
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106
cadence
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| n.（说话声调的）抑扬顿挫 | |
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107
slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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108
retract
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| vt.缩回，撤回收回，取消 | |
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109
profess
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| v.声称，冒称，以...为业，正式接受入教，表明信仰 | |
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110
second-hand
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| adj.用过的，旧的，二手的 | |
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111
antiquities
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| n.古老( antiquity的名词复数 )；古迹；古人们；古代的风俗习惯 | |
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112
impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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113
eulogy
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| n.颂词；颂扬 | |
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114
perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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115
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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116
attaining
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的现在分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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117
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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118
renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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119
obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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120
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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121
devoutly
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| adv.虔诚地，虔敬地，衷心地 | |
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122
vocation
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| n.职业，行业 | |
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123
originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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124
renewals
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| 重建( renewal的名词复数 )； 更新； 重生； 合同的续订 | |
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125
modulation
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| n.调制 | |
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126
fervor
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| n.热诚；热心；炽热 | |
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127
allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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128
subduing
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| 征服( subdue的现在分词 )； 克制； 制服； 色变暗 | |
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129
recurring
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| adj.往复的，再次发生的 | |
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130
permissible
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| adj.可允许的，许可的 | |
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131
accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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132
waived
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| v.宣布放弃( waive的过去式和过去分词 )；搁置；推迟；放弃（权利、要求等） | |
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133
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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134
dependence
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| n.依靠，依赖；信任，信赖；隶属 | |
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135
addict
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| v.使沉溺；使上瘾；n.沉溺于不良嗜好的人 | |
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136
conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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137
caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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