For the first time since Dorothea had known him, Mr. Casaubon'sface had a quick angry flush upon it.
"My love," he said, with irritation reined in by propriety, "you mayrely upon me for knowing the times and the seasons, adapted to thedifferent stages of a work which is not to be measured by the facileconjectures of ignorant onlookers. It had been easy for me to gain atemporary effect by a mirage of baseless opinion; but it is ever the trialof the scrupulous explorer to be saluted with the impatient scorn ofchatterers who attempt only the smallest achievements, being indeedequipped for no other. And it were well if all such could be admonishedto discriminate judgments of which the true subject-matter lies entirelybeyond their reach, from those of which the elements may be compassedby a narrow and superficial survey."
This speech was delivered with an energy and readiness quiteunusual with Mr. Casaubon. It was not indeed entirely an improvisation,but had taken shape in inward colloquy, and rushed out like the roundgrains from a fruit when sudden heat cracks it. Dorothea was not onlyhis wife: she was a personification of that shallow world whichsurrounds the appreciated or desponding author.
Dorothea was indignant in her turn. Had she not been repressingeverything in herself except the desire to enter into some fellowship withher husband's chief interests?
"My judgment was a very superficial one—such as I am capable offorming," she answered, with a prompt resentment, that needed norehearsal. "You showed me the rows of notebooks—you have oftenspoken of them—you have often said that they wanted digesting. But Inever heard you speak of the writing that is to be published. Those werevery simple facts, and my judgment went no farther. I only begged youto let me be of some good to you."
Dorothea rose to leave the table and Mr. Casaubon made no reply,taking up a letter which lay beside him as if to reperuse it. Both wereshocked at their mutual situation—that each should have betrayed angertowards the other. If they had been at home, settled at Lowick inordinary life among their neighbors, the clash would have been lessembarrassing: but on a wedding journey, the express object of which isto isolate two people on the ground that they are all the world to eachother, the sense of disagreement is, to say the least, confounding andstultifying. To have changed your longitude extensively and placedyourselves in a moral solitude in order to have small explosions, to findconversation difficult and to hand a glass of water without looking, canhardly be regarded as satisfactory fulfilment even to the toughest minds.To Dorothea's inexperienced sensitiveness, it seemed like a catastrophe,changing all prospects; and to Mr. Casaubon it was a new pain, he neverhaving been on a wedding journey before, or found himself in that closeunion which was more of a subjection than he had been able to imagine,since this charming young bride not only obliged him to muchconsideration on her behalf (which he had sedulously given), but turnedout to be capable of agitating him cruelly just where he most neededsoothing. Instead of getting a soft fence against the cold, shadowy,unapplausive audience of his life, had he only given it a more substantialpresence?
Neither of them felt it possible to speak again at present. To havereversed a previous arrangement and declined to go out would have beena show of persistent anger which Dorothea's conscience shrank from,seeing that she already began to feel herself guilty. However just herindignation might be, her ideal was not to claim justice, but to givetenderness. So when the carriage came to the door, she drove with Mr.Casaubon to the Vatican, walked with him through the stony avenue ofinscriptions, and when she parted with him at the entrance to theLibrary, went on through the Museum out of mere listlessness as to whatwas around her. She had not spirit to turn round and say that she woulddrive anywhere. It was when Mr. Casaubon was quitting her thatNaumann had first seen her, and he had entered the long gallery ofsculpture at the same time with her; but here Naumann had to awaitLadislaw with whom he was to settle a bet of champagne about anenigmatical mediaeval-looking figure there. After they had examined thefigure, and had walked on finishing their dispute, they had parted,Ladislaw lingering behind while Naumann had gone into the Hall ofStatues where he again saw Dorothea, and saw her in that broodingabstraction which made her pose remarkable. She did not really see thestreak of sunlight on the floor more than she saw the statues: she wasinwardly seeing the light of years to come in her own home and over theEnglish fields and elms and hedge-bordered highroads; and feeling thatthe way in which they might be filled with joyful devotedness was not soclear to her as it had been. But in Dorothea's mind there was a currentinto which all thought and feeling were apt sooner or later to flow—thereaching forward of the whole consciousness towards the fullest truth,the least partial good. There was clearly something better than anger anddespondency.
CHAPTER XXI.
"Hire facounde eke full womanly and plain,
No contrefeted termes had she
To semen wise."
—CHAUCER.
It was in that way Dorothea came to be sobbing as soon as she wassecurely alone. But she was presently roused by a knock at the door,which made her hastily dry her eyes before saying, "Come in." Tantripphad brought a card, and said that there was a gentleman waiting in thelobby. The courier had told him that only Mrs. Casaubon was at home,but he said he was a relation of Mr. Casaubon's: would she see him?
"Yes," said Dorothea, without pause; "show him into the salon." Herchief impressions about young Ladislaw were that when she had seenhim at Lowick she had been made aware of Mr. Casaubon's generositytowards him, and also that she had been interested in his own hesitationabout his career. She was alive to anything that gave her an opportunityfor active sympathy, and at this moment it seemed as if the visit hadcome to shake her out of her self-absorbed discontent—to remind her ofher husband's goodness, and make her feel that she had now the right tobe his helpmate in all kind deeds. She waited a minute or two, but whenshe passed into the next room there were just signs enough that she hadbeen crying to make her open face look more youthful and appealingthan usual. She met Ladislaw with that exquisite smile of good-willwhich is unmixed with vanity, and held out her hand to him. He was theelder by several years, but at that moment he looked much the younger,for his transparent complexion flushed suddenly, and he spoke with ashyness extremely unlike the ready indifference of his manner with hismale companion, while Dorothea became all the calmer with a wonderingdesire to put him at ease.
"I was not aware that you and Mr. Casaubon were in Rome, untilthis morning, when I saw you in the Vatican Museum," he said. "I knewyou at once—but—I mean, that I concluded Mr. Casaubon's addresswould be found at the Poste Restante, and I was anxious to pay myrespects to him and you as early as possible."
"Pray sit down. He is not here now, but he will be glad to hear ofyou, I am sure," said Dorothea, seating herself unthinkingly between thefire and the light of the tall window, and pointing to a chair opposite,with the quietude of a benignant matron. The signs of girlish sorrow inher face were only the more striking. "Mr. Casaubon is much engaged;but you will leave your address—will you not?—and he will write toyou."
"You are very good," said Ladislaw, beginning to lose his diffidencein the interest with which he was observing the signs of weeping whichhad altered her face. "My address is on my card. But if you will allow meI will call again to-morrow at an hour when Mr. Casaubon is likely to beat home."
"He goes to read in the Library of the Vatican every day, and you canhardly see him except by an appointment. Especially now. We are aboutto leave Rome, and he is very busy. He is usually away almost frombreakfast till dinner. But I am sure he will wish you to dine with us."
Will Ladislaw was struck mute for a few moments. He had neverbeen fond of Mr. Casaubon, and if it had not been for the sense ofobligation, would have laughed at him as a Bat of erudition. But the ideaof this dried-up pedant, this elaborator of small explanations about asimportant as the surplus stock of false antiquities kept in a vendor's backchamber, having first got this adorable young creature to marry him, andthen passing his honeymoon away from her, groping after his mouldyfutilities (Will was given to hyperbole)—this sudden picture stirred himwith a sort of comic disgust: he was divided between the impulse tolaugh aloud and the equally unseasonable impulse to burst into scornfulinvective.
For an instant he felt that the struggle, was causing a queercontortion of his mobile features, but with a good effort he resolved itinto nothing more offensive than a merry smile.
Dorothea wondered; but the smile was irresistible, and shone backfrom her face too. Will Ladislaw's smile was delightful, unless you wereangry with him beforehand: it was a gush of inward light illuminating thetransparent skin as well as the eyes, and playing about every curve andline as if some Ariel were touching them with a new charm, andbanishing forever the traces of moodiness. The reflection of that smilecould not but have a little merriment in it too, even under dark eyelashesstill moist, as Dorothea said inquiringly, "Something amuses you?"
"Yes," said Will, quick in finding resources. "I am thinking of the sortof figure I cut the first time I saw you, when you annihilated my poorsketch with your criticism."
"My criticism?" said Dorothea, wondering still more. "Surely not. Ialways feel particularly ignorant about painting."
"I suspected you of knowing so much, that you knew how to say justwhat was most cutting. You said—I dare say you don't remember it as Ido—that the relation of my sketch to nature was quite hidden from you.At least, you implied that." Will could laugh now as well as smile.
"That was really my ignorance," said Dorothea, admiring
Will's good-humor. "I must have said so only because I never couldsee any beauty in the pictures which my uncle told me all judges thoughtvery fine. And I have gone about with just the same ignorance in Rome.There are comparatively few paintings that I can really enjoy. At firstwhen I enter a room where the walls are covered with frescos, or withrare pictures, I feel a kind of awe—like a child present at greatceremonies where there are grand robes and processions; I feel myself inthe presence of some higher life than my own. But when I begin toexamine the pictures one by on the life goes out of them, or else issomething violent and strange to me. It must be my own dulness. I amseeing so much all at once, and not understanding half of it. That alwaysmakes one feel stupid. It is painful to be told that anything is very fineand not be able to feel that it is fine—something like being blind, whilepeople talk of the sky."
"Oh, there is a great deal in the feeling for art which must beacquired," said Will. (It was impossible now to doubt the directness ofDorothea's confession.) "Art is an old language with a great manyartificial affected styles, and sometimes the chief pleasure one gets out ofknowing them is the mere sense of knowing. I enjoy the art of all sortshere immensely; but I suppose if I could pick my enjoyment to pieces Ishould find it made up of many different threads. There is something indaubing a little one's self, and having an idea of the process."
"You mean perhaps to be a painter?" said Dorothea, with a newdirection of interest. "You mean to make painting your profession? Mr.Casaubon will like to hear that you have chosen a profession."
"No, oh no," said Will, with some coldness. "I have quite made up mymind against it. It is too one-sided a life. I have been seeing a great dealof the German artists here: I travelled from Frankfort with one of them.Some are fine, even brilliant fellows—but I should not like to get intotheir way of looking at the world entirely from the studio point of view."
"That I can understand," said Dorothea, cordially. "And in Rome itseems as if there were so many things which are more wanted in theworld than pictures. But if you have a genius for painting, would it notbe right to take that as a guide? Perhaps you might do better things thanthese—or different, so that there might not be so many pictures almostall alike in the same place."
There was no mistaking this simplicity, and Will was won by it intofrankness. "A man must have a very rare genius to make changes of thatsort. I am afraid mine would not carry me even to the pitch of doing wellwhat has been done already, at least not so well as to make it worthwhile. And I should never succeed in anything by dint of drudgery. Ifthings don't come easily to me I never get them."
"I have heard Mr. Casaubon say that he regrets your want ofpatience," said Dorothea, gently. She was rather shocked at this mode oftaking all life as a holiday.
"Yes, I know Mr. Casaubon's opinion. He and I differ."
The slight streak of contempt in this hasty reply offended Dorothea.She was all the more susceptible about Mr. Casaubon because of hermorning's trouble.
"Certainly you differ," she said, rather proudly. "I did not think ofcomparing you: such power of persevering devoted labor as Mr.Casaubon's is not common."
Will saw that she was offended, but this only gave an additionalimpulse to the new irritation of his latent dislike towards Mr. Casaubon.It was too intolerable that Dorothea should be worshipping this husband:such weakness in a woman is pleasant to no man but the husband inquestion. Mortals are easily tempted to pinch the life out of theirneighbor's buzzing glory, and think that such killing is no murder.
"No, indeed," he answered, promptly. "And therefore it is a pity thatit should be thrown away, as so much English scholarship is, for want ofknowing what is being done by the rest of the world. If Mr. Casaubonread German he would save himself a great deal of trouble."
"I do not understand you," said Dorothea, startled and anxious.
"I merely mean," said Will, in an offhand way, "that the Germanshave taken the lead in historical inquiries, and they laugh at resultswhich are got by groping about in woods with a pocket-compass whilethey have made good roads. When I was with Mr. Casaubon I saw thathe deafened himself in that direction: it was almost against his will thathe read a Latin treatise written by a German. I was very sorry."
