Not that this inward amazement of Dorothea's was anything veryexceptional: many souls in their young nudity are tumbled out amongincongruities and left to "find their feet" among them, while their eldersgo about their business. Nor can I suppose that when Mrs. Casaubon isdiscovered in a fit of weeping six weeks after her wedding, the situationwill be regarded as tragic. Some discouragement, some faintness of heartat the new real future which replaces the imaginary, is not unusual, andwe do not expect people to be deeply moved by what is not unusual.That element of tragedy which lies in the very fact of frequency, has notyet wrought itself into the coarse emotion of mankind; and perhaps ourframes could hardly bear much of it. If we had a keen vision and feelingof all ordinary human life, it would be like hearing the grass grow andthe squirrel's heart beat, and we should die of that roar which lies on theother side of silence. As it is, the quickest of us walk about well waddedwith stupidity.
However, Dorothea was crying, and if she had been required to statethe cause, she could only have done so in some such general words as Ihave already used: to have been driven to be more particular would havebeen like trying to give a history of the lights and shadows, for that newreal future which was replacing the imaginary drew its material from theendless minutiae by which her view of Mr. Casaubon and her wifelyrelation, now that she was married to him, was gradually changing withthe secret motion of a watch-hand from what it had been in her maidendream. It was too early yet for her fully to recognize or at least admit thechange, still more for her to have readjusted that devotedness which wasso necessary a part of her mental life that she was almost sure sooner orlater to recover it. Permanent rebellion, the disorder of a life withoutsome loving reverent resolve, was not possible to her; but she was nowin an interval when the very force of her nature heightened its confusion.In this way, the early months of marriage often are times of criticaltumult—whether that of a shrimp-pool or of deeper waters—whichafterwards subsides into cheerful peace.
But was not Mr. Casaubon just as learned as before? Had his formsof expression changed, or his sentiments become less laudable? Ohwaywardness of womanhood! did his chronology fail him, or his abilityto state not only a theory but the names of those who held it; or hisprovision for giving the heads of any subject on demand? And was notRome the place in all the world to give free play to suchaccomplishments? Besides, had not Dorothea's enthusiasm especiallydwelt on the prospect of relieving the weight and perhaps the sadnesswith which great tasks lie on him who has to achieve them?— And thatsuch weight pressed on Mr. Casaubon was only plainer than before.
All these are crushing questions; but whatever else remained thesame, the light had changed, and you cannot find the pearly dawn atnoonday. The fact is unalterable, that a fellow-mortal with whose natureyou are acquainted solely through the brief entrances and exits of a fewimaginative weeks called courtship, may, when seen in the continuity ofmarried companionship, be disclosed as something better or worse thanwhat you have preconceived, but will certainly not appear altogether thesame. And it would be astonishing to find how soon the change is felt ifwe had no kindred changes to compare with it. To share lodgings with abrilliant dinner-companion, or to see your favorite politician in theMinistry, may bring about changes quite as rapid: in these cases too webegin by knowing little and believing much, and we sometimes end byinverting the quantities.
Still, such comparisons might mislead, for no man was moreincapable of flashy make-believe than Mr. Casaubon: he was as genuinea character as any ruminant animal, and he had not actively assisted increating any illusions about himself. How was it that in the weeks sinceher marriage, Dorothea had not distinctly observed but felt with astifling depression, that the large vistas and wide fresh air which she haddreamed of finding in her husband's mind were replaced by anteroomsand winding passages which seemed to lead nowhither? I suppose it wasthat in courtship everything is regarded as provisional and preliminary,and the smallest sample of virtue or accomplishment is taken toguarantee delightful stores which the broad leisure of marriage willreveal. But the door-sill of marriage once crossed, expectation isconcentrated on the present. Having once embarked on your maritalvoyage, it is impossible not to be aware that you make no way and thatthe sea is not within sight—that, in fact, you are exploring an enclosedbasin.
In their conversation before marriage, Mr. Casaubon had often dwelton some explanation or questionable detail of which Dorothea did notsee the bearing; but such imperfect coherence seemed due to thebrokenness of their intercourse, and, supported by her faith in theirfuture, she had listened with fervid patience to a recitation of possiblearguments to be brought against Mr. Casaubon's entirely new view of thePhilistine god Dagon and other fish-deities, thinking that hereafter sheshould see this subject which touched him so nearly from the same highground whence doubtless it had become so important to him. Again, thematter-of-course statement and tone of dismissal with which he treatedwhat to her were the most stirring thoughts, was easily accounted for asbelonging to the sense of haste and preoccupation in which she herselfshared during their engagement. But now, since they had been in Rome,with all the depths of her emotion roused to tumultuous activity, andwith life made a new problem by new elements, she had been becomingmore and more aware, with a certain terror, that her mind wascontinually sliding into inward fits of anger and repulsion, or else intoforlorn weariness. How far the judicious Hooker or any other hero oferudition would have been the same at Mr. Casaubon's time of life, shehad no means of knowing, so that he could not have the advantage ofcomparison; but her husband's way of commenting on the strangelyimpressive objects around them had begun to affect her with a sort ofmental shiver: he had perhaps the best intention of acquitting himselfworthily, but only of acquitting himself. What was fresh to her mind wasworn out to his; and such capacity of thought and feeling as had everbeen stimulated in him by the general life of mankind had long shrunk toa sort of dried preparation, a lifeless embalmment of knowledge.
When he said, "Does this interest you, Dorothea? Shall we stay alittle longer? I am ready to stay if you wish it,"—it seemed to her as ifgoing or staying were alike dreary. Or, "Should you like to go to theFarnesina, Dorothea? It contains celebrated frescos designed or paintedby Raphael, which most persons think it worth while to visit."
"But do you care about them?" was always Dorothea's question.
"They are, I believe, highly esteemed. Some of them represent thefable of Cupid and Psyche, which is probably the romantic invention of aliterary period, and cannot, I think, be reckoned as a genuine mythicalproduct. But if you like these wall-paintings we can easily drive thither;and you will then, I think, have seen the chief works of Raphael, any ofwhich it were a pity to omit in a visit to Rome. He is the painter who hasbeen held to combine the most complete grace of form with sublimity ofexpression. Such at least I have gathered to be the opinion ofcognoscenti."
This kind of answer given in a measured official tone, as of aclergyman reading according to the rubric, did not help to justify theglories of the Eternal City, or to give her the hope that if she knew moreabout them the world would be joyously illuminated for her. There ishardly any contact more depressing to a young ardent creature than thatof a mind in which years full of knowledge seem to have issued in ablank absence of interest or sympathy.
On other subjects indeed Mr. Casaubon showed a tenacity ofoccupation and an eagerness which are usually regarded as the effect ofenthusiasm, and Dorothea was anxious to follow this spontaneousdirection of his thoughts, instead of being made to feel that she draggedhim away from it. But she was gradually ceasing to expect with herformer delightful confidence that she should see any wide opening whereshe followed him. Poor Mr. Casaubon himself was lost among smallclosets and winding stairs, and in an agitated dimness about the Cabeiri,or in an exposure of other mythologists' ill-considered parallels, easilylost sight of any purpose which had prompted him to these labors. Withhis taper stuck before him he forgot the absence of windows, and inbitter manuscript remarks on other men's notions about the solar deities,he had become indifferent to the sunlight.
These characteristics, fixed and unchangeable as bone in Mr.Casaubon, might have remained longer unfelt by Dorothea if she hadbeen encouraged to pour forth her girlish and womanly feeling—if hewould have held her hands between his and listened with the delight oftenderness and understanding to all the little histories which made upher experience, and would have given her the same sort of intimacy inreturn, so that the past life of each could be included in their mutualknowledge and affection—or if she could have fed her affection withthose childlike caresses which are the bent of every sweet woman, whohas begun by showering kisses on the hard pate of her bald doll, creatinga happy soul within that woodenness from the wealth of her own love.That was Dorothea's bent. With all her yearning to know what was afarfrom her and to be widely benignant, she had ardor enough for what wasnear, to have kissed Mr. Casaubon's coat-sleeve, or to have caressed hisshoe-latchet, if he would have made any other sign of acceptance thanpronouncing her, with his unfailing propriety, to be of a mostaffectionate and truly feminine nature, indicating at the same time bypolitely reaching a chair for her that he regarded these manifestations asrather crude and startling. Having made his clerical toilet with due carein the morning, he was prepared only for those amenities of life whichwere suited to the well-adjusted stiff cravat of the period, and to a mindweighted with unpublished matter.
And by a sad contradiction Dorothea's ideas and resolves seemed likemelting ice floating and lost in the warm flood of which they had beenbut another form. She was humiliated to find herself a mere victim offeeling, as if she could know nothing except through that medium: all herstrength was scattered in fits of agitation, of struggle, of despondency,and then again in visions of more complete renunciation, transforming allhard conditions into duty. Poor Dorothea! she was certainlytroublesome—to herself chiefly; but this morning for the first time shehad been troublesome to Mr. Casaubon.
She had begun, while they were taking coffee, with a determinationto shake off what she inwardly called her selfishness, and turned a faceall cheerful attention to her husband when he said, "My dear Dorothea,we must now think of all that is yet left undone, as a preliminary to ourdeparture. I would fain have returned home earlier that we might havebeen at Lowick for the Christmas; but my inquiries here have beenprotracted beyond their anticipated period. I trust, however, that thetime here has not been passed unpleasantly to you. Among the sights ofEurope, that of Rome has ever been held one of the most striking and insome respects edifying. I well remember that I considered it an epoch inmy life when I visited it for the first time; after the fall of Napoleon, anevent which opened the Continent to travellers. Indeed I think it is oneamong several cities to which an extreme hyperbole has been applied—'See Rome and die:' but in your case I would propose an emendation andsay, See Rome as a bride, and live henceforth as a happy wife."
Mr. Casaubon pronounced this little speech with the mostconscientious intention, blinking a little and swaying his head up anddown, and concluding with a smile. He had not found marriage arapturous state, but he had no idea of being anything else than anirreproachable husband, who would make a charming young woman ashappy as she deserved to be.
"I hope you are thoroughly satisfied with our stay—I mean, with theresult so far as your studies are concerned," said Dorothea, trying tokeep her mind fixed on what most affected her husband.
"Yes," said Mr. Casaubon, with that peculiar pitch of voice whichmakes the word half a negative. "I have been led farther than I hadforeseen, and various subjects for annotation have presented themselveswhich, though I have no direct need of them, I could not pretermit. Thetask, notwithstanding the assistance of my amanuensis, has been asomewhat laborious one, but your society has happily prevented me fromthat too continuous prosecution of thought beyond the hours of studywhich has been the snare of my solitary life."
"I am very glad that my presence has made any difference to you,"said Dorothea, who had a vivid memory of evenings in which she hadsupposed that Mr. Casaubon's mind had gone too deep during the day tobe able to get to the surface again. I fear there was a little temper in herreply. "I hope when we get to Lowick, I shall be more useful to you, andbe able to enter a little more into what interests you."
"Doubtless, my dear," said Mr. Casaubon, with a slight bow. "Thenotes I have here made will want sifting, and you can, if you please,extract them under my direction."
"And all your notes," said Dorothea, whose heart had already burnedwithin her on this subject, so that now she could not help speaking withher tongue. "All those rows of volumes—will you not now do what youused to speak of?—will you not make up your mind what part of themyou will use, and begin to write the book which will make your vastknowledge useful to the world? I will write to your dictation, or I willcopy and extract what you tell me: I can be of no other use." Dorothea,in a most unaccountable, darkly feminine manner, ended with a slightsob and eyes full of tears.
The excessive feeling manifested would alone have been highlydisturbing to Mr. Casaubon, but there were other reasons whyDorothea's words were among the most cutting and irritating to him thatshe could have been impelled to use. She was as blind to his inwardtroubles as he to hers: she had not yet learned those hidden conflicts inher husband which claim our pity. She had not yet listened patiently tohis heartbeats, but only felt that her own was beating violently. In Mr.Casaubon's ear, Dorothea's voice gave loud emphatic iteration to thosemuffled suggestions of consciousness which it was possible to explain asmere fancy, the illusion of exaggerated sensitiveness: always when suchsuggestions are unmistakably repeated from without, they are resisted ascruel and unjust. We are angered even by the full acceptance of ourhumiliating confessions—how much more by hearing in hard distinctsyllables from the lips of a near observer, those confused murmurs whichwe try to call morbid, and strive against as if they were the oncoming ofnumbness! And this cruel outward accuser was there in the shape of awife—nay, of a young bride, who, instead of observing his abundant pen-scratches and amplitude of paper with the uncritical awe of an elegant-minded canary-bird, seemed to present herself as a spy watchingeverything with a malign power of inference. Here, towards thisparticular point of the compass, Mr. Casaubon had a sensitiveness tomatch Dorothea's, and an equal quickness to imagine more than the fact.He had formerly observed with approbation her capacity for worshippingthe right object; he now foresaw with sudden terror that this capacitymight be replaced by presumption, this worship by the most exasperatingof all criticism,—that which sees vaguely a great many fine ends, and hasnot the least notion what it costs to reach them.
