米德尔马契 英文版 Middlemarch
乔治.艾略特 George Eliot
CHAPTER V.
"Hard students are commonly troubled with gowts, catarrhs,rheums, cachexia, bradypepsia, bad eyes, stone, and collick,crudities, oppilations, vertigo, winds, consumptions, andall such diseases as come by over-much sitting: they aremost part lean, dry, ill-colored . . . and all throughimmoderate pains and extraordinary studies. If you will notbelieve the truth of this, look upon great Tostatus andThomas Aquainas' works; and tell me whether those men tookpains."--BURTON'S Anatomy of Melancholy, P. I, s. 2.
This was Mr. Casaubon's letter.
MY DEAR MISS BROOKE,--I have your guardian's permission to addressyou on a subject than which I have none more at heart. I am not,I trust, mistaken in the recognition of some deeper correspondencethan that of date in the fact that a consciousness of need in myown life had arisen contemporaneously with the possibility of mybecoming acquainted with you. For in the first hour of meeting you,I had an impression of your eminent and perhaps exclusive fitnessto supply that need (connected, I may say, with such activity of theaffections as even the preoccupations of a work too special to beabdicated could not uninterruptedly dissimulate); and each succeedingopportunity for observation has given the impression an addeddepth by convincing me more emphatically of that fitness which Ihad preconceived, and thus evoking more decisively those affectionsto which I have but now referred. Our conversations have, I think,made sufficiently clear to you the tenor of my life and purposes:a tenor unsuited, I am aware, to the commoner order of minds.But I have discerned in you an elevation of thought and a capabilityof devotedness, which I had hitherto not conceived to be compatibleeither with the early bloom of youth or with those graces of sex thatmay be said at once to win and to confer distinction when combined,as they notably are in you, with the mental qualities above indicated.It was, I confess, beyond my hope to meet with this rare combinationof elements both solid and attractive, adapted to supply aidin graver labors and to cast a charm over vacant hours; and butfor 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 completionof a life's plan), I should presumably have gone on to the lastwithout any attempt to lighten my solitariness 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 youhow far your own are of a nature to confirm my happy presentiment.To be accepted by you as your husband and the earthly guardian ofyour 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 consecration of a life which, however shortin the sequel, has no backward pages whereon, if you chooseto turn them, you will find records such as might justly causeyou either bitterness or shame. I await the expression of yoursentiments with an anxiety which it would be the part of wisdom(were it possible) to divert by a more arduous labor than usual.But in this order of experience I am still young, and in looking forwardto an unfavorable possibility I cannot but feel that resignationto solitude will be more difficult after the temporary illuminationof 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 sobbed. She could not pray: under the rush of solemnemotion 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 itcritically as a profession of love? Her whole soul was possessedby the fact that a fuller life was opening before her: shewas a neophyte about to enter on a higher grade of initiation.She was going to have room for the energies which stirred uneasilyunder the dimness and pressure of her own ignorance and the pettyperemptoriness 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 mindthat she could reverence. This hope was not unmixed with the glowof proud delight--the joyous maiden surprise that she was chosenby the man whom her admiration had chosen. All Dorothea's passionwas transfused through a mind struggling towards an ideal life;the radiance of her transfigured girlhood fell on the first objectthat came within its level. The impetus with which inclinationbecame resolution was heightened by those little events of the daywhich had roused her discontent with the actual conditions ofher life.
After dinner, when Celia was playing an "air, with variations,"a small kind of tinkling which symbolized the aesthetic part of theyoung ladies' education, Dorothea went up to her room to answerMr. Casaubon's letter. Why should she defer the answer? She wroteit over three times, not because she wished to change the wording,but because her hand was unusually uncertain, and she could not bearthat Mr. Casaubon should think her handwriting bad and illegible.She piqued herself on writing a hand in which each letter wasdistinguishable without any large range of conjecture, and she meantto make much use of this accomplishment, 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 worthy to be your wife. I can look forward to no betterhappiness 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 bethrough lifeYours devotedly,DOROTHEA BROOKE.
Later in the evening she followed her uncle into the libraryto 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 hiswriting-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 makeme vacillate. If I changed my mind, it must be because of somethingimportant and entirely 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 youdon'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 onehad thrown a light missile at him. Dorothea immediately feltsome self-rebuke, and said--
"I mean in the light of a husband. He is very kind, I think--reallyvery good about the cottages. A well-meaning man."
"But you must have a scholar, and that sort of thing? Well, it liesa 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--itcomes out in the sons. Clever sons, clever mothers. I wenta good deal into that, at one time. However, my dear, I havealways said that people should do as they like in these things,up to a certain point. I couldn't, as your guardian, have consentedto a bad match. But Casaubon stands well: his position is good.I am afraid Chettam will be hurt, though, and Mrs. Cadwallader willblame me."
That evening, of course, Celia knew nothing of what had happened.She attributed Dorothea's abstracted manner, and the evidence offurther crying since they had got home, to the temper she had beenin about Sir James Chettam and the buildings, and was careful notto give further offence: having once said what she wanted to say,Celia had no disposition to recur to disagreeable subjects.It had been her nature when a child never to quarrel with any one--only to observe with wonder that they quarrelled with her, and lookedlike turkey-cocks; whereupon she was ready to play at cat's cradlewith them whenever they recovered themselves. And as to Dorothea,it had always been her way to find something wrong in her sister'swords, though Celia inwardly protested that she always said justhow things were, and nothing else: she never did and never couldput words together out of her own head. But the best of Dodo was,that she did not keep angry for long together. Now, though theyhad hardly spoken to each other all the evening, yet when Celia putby her work, intending to go to bed, a proceeding in which she wasalways much the earlier, Dorothea, who was seated on a low stool,unable to occupy herself except in meditation, said, with the musicalintonation which in moments of deep but quiet feeling made her speechlike a fine bit of recitative--
"Celia, dear, come and kiss me," holding her arms open as she spoke.
Celia knelt down to get the right level and gave her littlebutterfly kiss, while Dorothea encircled her with gentle armsand 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 pathos.
"No, dear, I am very, very happy," said Dorothea, fervently.
"So much the better," thought Celia. "But how strangely Dodo goesfrom one extreme to the other."
The next day, at luncheon, the butler, handing something toMr. 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'twait to write more--didn't wait, you know."
It could not seem remarkable to Celia that a dinner guest shouldbe announced to her sister beforehand, but, her eyes followingthe same direction as her uncle's, she was struck with the peculiareffect of the announcement on Dorothea. It seemed as if somethinglike the reflection of a white sunlit wing had passed acrossher features, ending in one of her rare blushes. For the first timeit entered into Celia's mind that there might be something morebetween Mr. Casaubon and her sister than his delight in bookishtalk and her delight in listening. Hitherto she had classedthe admiration for this "ugly" and learned acquaintance with theadmiration for Monsieur Liret at Lausanne, also ugly and learned.Dorothea had never been tired of listening to old Monsieur Liretwhen Celia's feet were as cold as possible, and when it had reallybecome dreadful to see the skin of his bald head moving about.Why then should her enthusiasm not extend to Mr. Casaubon simplyin the same way as to Monsieur Liret? And it seemed probablethat all learned men had a sort of schoolmaster's view of young people.
But now Celia was really startled at the suspicion which had dartedinto her mind. She was seldom taken by surprise in this way,her marvellous quickness in observing a certain order of signs generallypreparing her to expect such outward events as she had an interest in.Not that she now imagined Mr. Casaubon to be already an acceptedlover: she had only begun to feel disgust at the possibility thatanything in Dorothea's mind could tend towards such an issue.Here was something really to vex her about Dodo: it was all verywell not to accept Sir James Chettam, but the idea of marryingMr. Casaubon! Celia felt a sort of shame mingled with a senseof the ludicrous. But perhaps Dodo, if she were really borderingon such an extravagance, might be turned away from it: experiencehad often shown that her impressibility might be calculated on.The day was damp, and they were not going to walk out, so they bothwent up to their sitting-room; and there Celia observed that Dorothea,instead of settling down with her usual diligent interest tosome occupation, simply leaned her elbow on an open book and lookedout of the window at the great cedar silvered with the damp.She herself had taken up the making of a toy for the curate's children,and was not going to enter on any subject too precipitately.
Dorothea was in fact thinking that it was desirable for Celia to knowof the momentous change in Mr. Casaubon's position since he had lastbeen in the house: it did not seem fair to leave her in ignoranceof what would necessarily affect her attitude towards him; but it wasimpossible not to shrink from telling her. Dorothea accused herselfof some meanness in this timidity: it was always odious to her tohave any small fears or contrivances about her actions, but at thismoment she was seeking the highest aid possible that she might notdread the corrosiveness of Celia's pretty carnally minded prose.Her reverie was broken, and the difficulty of decision banished,by Celia's small and rather guttural voice speaking in its usual tone,of a remark aside or a "by the 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 eathis soup so."
"What is there remarkable about his soup-eating?"
"Really, Dodo, can't you hear how he scrapes his spoon? And healways blinks before he speaks. I don't know whether Locke blinked,but I'm sure I am sorry for those who sat opposite to him if he did."
"Celia," said Dorothea, with emphatic gravity, "pray don't makeany more observations of that kind."
"Why not? They are quite true," returned Celia, who had her reasonsfor persevering, though she was beginning to be a little afraid.
"Many things are true which only the commonest minds observe."
"Then I think the commonest minds must be rather useful.I think it is a pity Mr. Casaubon's mother had not a commoner mind:she might have taught him better." Celia was inwardly frightened,and ready to run away, now she had hurled this light javelin.
Dorothea's feelings had gathered to an avalanche, and there couldbe no further preparation.
"It is right to tell you, Celia, that I am engaged to marryMr. Casaubon."
Perhaps Celia had never turned so pale before. The paper man shewas making would have had his leg injured, but for her habitualcare of whatever she held in her hands. She laid the fragilefigure down at once, and sat perfectly still for a few moments.When she spoke there was a tear gathering.
"Oh, Dodo, I hope you will be happy." Her sisterly tenderness couldnot but surmount other feelings at this moment, and her fearswere the fears of affection.
Dorothea was still hurt and agitated.
"It is quite decided, then?" said Celia, in an awed under tone."And uncle knows?"
"I have accepted Mr. Casaubon's offer. My uncle brought methe letter that contained it; he knew about it beforehand."
"I beg your pardon, if I have said anything to hurt you, Dodo,"said Celia, with a slight sob. She never could have thoughtthat she should feel as she did. There was something funerealin the whole affair, and Mr. Casaubon seemed to be the officiatingclergyman, about whom it would be indecent to make remarks.
"Never mind, Kitty, do not grieve. We should never admirethe 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 asmuch from Celia's subdued astonishment as from her small criticisms.Of course all the world round Tipton would be out of sympathywith this marriage. Dorothea knew of no one who thought as shedid 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 himwith more freedom than she had ever felt before, even pouringout her joy at the thought of devoting herself to him, and oflearning how she might best share and further all his great ends.Mr. Casaubon was touched with an unknown delight (what man wouldnot have been?) at this childlike unrestrained ardor: he was notsurprised (what lover would have been?) that he should be the objectof it.
"My dear young lady--Miss Brooke--Dorothea!" he said, pressing herhand between his hands, "this is a happiness greater than I had everimagined to be in reserve for me. That I should ever meet with amind and person so rich in the mingled graces which could rendermarriage desirable, was far indeed from my conception. You haveall--nay, more than all--those qualities which I have ever regardedas the characteristic excellences of womanhood. The great charmof your sex is its capability of an ardent self-sacrificing affection,and herein we see its fitness to round and complete the existenceof our own. Hitherto I have known few pleasures save of the severerkind: my satisfactions have been those of the solitary student.I have been little disposed to gather flowers that would witherin my hand, but now I shall pluck them with eagerness, to placethem in your bosom."
No speech could have been more thoroughly honest in its intention:the frigid rhetoric at the end was as sincere as the bark of a dog,or the cawing of an amorous rook. Would it not be rash to concludethat there was no passion behind those sonnets to Delia which strikeus as the thin music of a mandolin?
Dorothea's faith supplied all that Mr. Casaubon's words seemedto leave unsaid: what believer sees a disturbing omission orinfelicity? The text, whether of prophet or of poet, expands forwhatever we can put into it, and even his bad grammar is sublime.
"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 tolisten to me. You must often be weary with the pursuit of subjectsin your own track. I shall gain enough if you will take me with you there."
"How should I be able now to persevere in any path withoutyour companionship?" said Mr. Casaubon, kissing her candid brow,and feeling that heaven had vouchsafed him a blessing in every waysuited to his peculiar wants. He was being unconsciously wroughtupon by the charms of a nature which was entirely without hiddencalculations either for immediate effects or for remoter ends.It was this which made Dorothea so childlike, and, according to somejudges, so stupid, with all her reputed cleverness; as, for example,in the present case of throwing herself, metaphorically speaking,at Mr. Casaubon's feet, and kissing his unfashionable shoe-tiesas if he were a Protestant Pope. She was not in the least teachingMr. Casaubon to ask if he were good enough for her, but merely askingherself anxiously how she could be good enough for Mr. Casaubon.Before he left the next day it had been decided that the marriageshould take place within six weeks. Why not? Mr. Casaubon's housewas ready. It was not a parsonage, but a considerable mansion,with much land attached to it. The parsonage was inhabited bythe curate, who did all the duty except preaching the morning sermon.