Instead of wondering at this result of misery in Mr. Casaubon, Ithink it quite ordinary. Will not a tiny speck very close to our vision blotout the glory of the world, and leave only a margin by which we see theblot? I know no speck so troublesome as self. And who, if Mr. Casaubonhad chosen to expound his discontents—his suspicions that he was notany longer adored without criticism—could have denied that they werefounded on good reasons? On the contrary, there was a strong reason tobe added, which he had not himself taken explicitly into account—namely, that he was not unmixedly adorable. He suspected this,however, as he suspected other things, without confessing it, and like therest of us, felt how soothing it would have been to have a companionwho would never find it out.
This sore susceptibility in relation to Dorothea was thoroughlyprepared before Will Ladislaw had returned to Lowick, and what hadoccurred since then had brought Mr. Casaubon's power of suspiciousconstruction into exasperated activity. To all the facts which he knew, headded imaginary facts both present and future which became more realto him than those because they called up a stronger dislike, a morepredominating bitterness. Suspicion and jealousy of Will Ladislaw'sintentions, suspicion and jealousy of Dorothea's impressions, wereconstantly at their weaving work. It would be quite unjust to him tosuppose that he could have entered into any coarse misinterpretation ofDorothea: his own habits of mind and conduct, quite as much as theopen elevation of her nature, saved him from any such mistake. What hewas jealous of was her opinion, the sway that might be given to herardent mind in its judgments, and the future possibilities to which thesemight lead her. As to Will, though until his last defiant letter he hadnothing definite which he would choose formally to allege against him,he felt himself warranted in believing that he was capable of any designwhich could fascinate a rebellious temper and an undisciplinedimpulsiveness. He was quite sure that Dorothea was the cause of Will'sreturn from Rome, and his determination to settle in the neighborhood;and he was penetrating enough to imagine that Dorothea had innocentlyencouraged this course. It was as clear as possible that she was ready tobe attached to Will and to be pliant to his suggestions: they had neverhad a tete-a-tete without her bringing away from it some newtroublesome impression, and the last interview that Mr. Casaubon wasaware of (Dorothea, on returning from Freshitt Hall, had for the firsttime been silent about having seen Will) had led to a scene which rousedan angrier feeling against them both than he had ever known before.Dorothea's outpouring of her notions about money, in the darkness ofthe night, had done nothing but bring a mixture of more odiousforeboding into her husband's mind.
And there was the shock lately given to his health always sadlypresent with him. He was certainly much revived; he had recovered allhis usual power of work: the illness might have been mere fatigue, andthere might still be twenty years of achievement before him, whichwould justify the thirty years of preparation. That prospect was made thesweeter by a flavor of vengeance against the hasty sneers of Carp &Company; for even when Mr. Casaubon was carrying his taper amongthe tombs of the past, those modern figures came athwart the dim light,and interrupted his diligent exploration. To convince Carp of his mistake,so that he would have to eat his own words with a good deal ofindigestion, would be an agreeable accident of triumphant authorship,which the prospect of living to future ages on earth and to all eternity inheaven could not exclude from contemplation. Since, thus, the previsionof his own unending bliss could not nullify the bitter savors of irritatedjealousy and vindictiveness, it is the less surprising that the probabilityof a transient earthly bliss for other persons, when he himself shouldhave entered into glory, had not a potently sweetening effect. If the truthshould be that some undermining disease was at work within him, theremight be large opportunity for some people to be the happier when hewas gone; and if one of those people should be Will Ladislaw, Mr.Casaubon objected so strongly that it seemed as if the annoyance wouldmake part of his disembodied existence.
This is a very bare and therefore a very incomplete way of puttingthe case. The human soul moves in many channels, and Mr. Casaubon,we know, had a sense of rectitude and an honorable pride in satisfyingthe requirements of honor, which compelled him to find other reasonsfor his conduct than those of jealousy and vindictiveness. The way inwhich Mr. Casaubon put the case was this:—"In marrying DorotheaBrooke I had to care for her well-being in case of my death. But well-being is not to be secured by ample, independent possession of property;on the contrary, occasions might arise in which such possession mightexpose her to the more danger. She is ready prey to any man who knowshow to play adroitly either on her affectionate ardor or her Quixoticenthusiasm; and a man stands by with that very intention in his mind—aman with no other principle than transient caprice, and who has apersonal animosity towards me—I am sure of it—an animosity which isfed by the consciousness of his ingratitude, and which he has constantlyvented in ridicule of which I am as well assured as if I had heard it. Evenif I live I shall not be without uneasiness as to what he may attemptthrough indirect influence. This man has gained Dorothea's ear: he hasfascinated her attention; he has evidently tried to impress her mind withthe notion that he has claims beyond anything I have done for him. If Idie—and he is waiting here on the watch for that—he will persuade herto marry him. That would be calamity for her and success for him. Shewould not think it calamity: he would make her believe anything; she hasa tendency to immoderate attachment which she inwardly reproaches mefor not responding to, and already her mind is occupied with hisfortunes. He thinks of an easy conquest and of entering into my nest.That I will hinder! Such a marriage would be fatal to Dorothea. Has heever persisted in anything except from contradiction? In knowledge hehas always tried to be showy at small cost. In religion he could be, aslong as it suited him, the facile echo of Dorothea's vagaries. When wassciolism ever dissociated from laxity? I utterly distrust his morals, and itis my duty to hinder to the utmost the fulfilment of his designs."
The arrangements made by Mr. Casaubon on his marriage left strongmeasures open to him, but in ruminating on them his mind inevitablydwelt so much on the probabilities of his own life that the longing to getthe nearest possible calculation had at last overcome his proud reticence,and had determined him to ask Lydgate's opinion as to the nature of hisillness.
He had mentioned to Dorothea that Lydgate was coming byappointment at half-past three, and in answer to her anxious question,whether he had felt ill, replied,—"No, I merely wish to have his opinionconcerning some habitual symptoms. You need not see him, my dear. Ishall give orders that he may be sent to me in the Yew-tree Walk, whereI shall be taking my usual exercise."
When Lydgate entered the Yew-tree Walk he saw Mr. Casaubonslowly receding with his hands behind him according to his habit, andhis head bent forward. It was a lovely afternoon; the leaves from thelofty limes were falling silently across the sombre evergreens, while thelights and shadows slept side by side: there was no sound but the cawingof the rooks, which to the accustomed ear is a lullaby, or that lastsolemn lullaby, a dirge. Lydgate, conscious of an energetic frame in itsprime, felt some compassion when the figure which he was likely soon toovertake turned round, and in advancing towards him showed moremarkedly than ever the signs of premature age—the student's bentshoulders, the emaciated limbs, and the melancholy lines of the mouth."Poor fellow," he thought, "some men with his years are like lions; onecan tell nothing of their age except that they are full grown."
"Mr. Lydgate," said Mr. Casaubon, with his invariably polite air, "Iam exceedingly obliged to you for your punctuality. We will, if youplease, carry on our conversation in walking to and fro."
"I hope your wish to see me is not due to the return of unpleasantsymptoms," said Lydgate, filling up a pause.
"Not immediately—no. In order to account for that wish I mustmention—what it were otherwise needless to refer to—that my life, onall collateral accounts insignificant, derives a possible importance fromthe incompleteness of labors which have extended through all its bestyears. In short, I have long had on hand a work which I would fain leavebehind me in such a state, at least, that it might be committed to thepress by—others. Were I assured that this is the utmost I can reasonablyexpect, that assurance would be a useful circumscription of my attempts,and a guide in both the positive and negative determination of mycourse."
Here Mr. Casaubon paused, removed one hand from his back andthrust it between the buttons of his single-breasted coat. To a mindlargely instructed in the human destiny hardly anything could be moreinteresting than the inward conflict implied in his formal measuredaddress, delivered with the usual sing-song and motion of the head. Nay,are there many situations more sublimely tragic than the struggle of thesoul with the demand to renounce a work which has been all thesignificance of its life—a significance which is to vanish as the waterswhich come and go where no man has need of them? But there wasnothing to strike others as sublime about Mr. Casaubon, and Lydgate,who had some contempt at hand for futile scholarship, felt a littleamusement mingling with his pity. He was at present too ill acquaintedwith disaster to enter into the pathos of a lot where everything is belowthe level of tragedy except the passionate egoism of the sufferer.
"You refer to the possible hindrances from want of health?" he said,wishing to help forward Mr. Casaubon's purpose, which seemed to beclogged by some hesitation.
"I do. You have not implied to me that the symptoms which—I ambound to testify—you watched with scrupulous care, were those of afatal disease. But were it so, Mr. Lydgate, I should desire to know thetruth without reservation, and I appeal to you for an exact statement ofyour conclusions: I request it as a friendly service. If you can tell me thatmy life is not threatened by anything else than ordinary casualties, Ishall rejoice, on grounds which I have already indicated. If not,knowledge of the truth is even more important to me."
"Then I can no longer hesitate as to my course," said Lydgate; "butthe first thing I must impress on you is that my conclusions are doublyuncertain—uncertain not only because of my fallibility, but becausediseases of the heart are eminently difficult to found predictions on. Inany ease, one can hardly increase appreciably the tremendousuncertainty of life."
Mr. Casaubon winced perceptibly, but bowed.
"I believe that you are suffering from what is called fattydegeneration of the heart, a disease which was first divined and exploredby Laennec, the man who gave us the stethoscope, not so very manyyears ago. A good deal of experience—a more lengthened observation—iswanting on the subject. But after what you have said, it is my duty to tellyou that death from this disease is often sudden. At the same time, nosuch result can be predicted. Your condition may be consistent with atolerably comfortable life for another fifteen years, or even more. I couldadd no information to this beyond anatomical or medical details, whichwould leave expectation at precisely the same point." Lydgate's instinctwas fine enough to tell him that plain speech, quite free fromostentatious caution, would be felt by Mr. Casaubon as a tribute ofrespect.
"I thank you, Mr. Lydgate," said Mr. Casaubon, after a moment'spause. "One thing more I have still to ask: did you communicate whatyou have now told me to Mrs. Casaubon?"
"Partly—I mean, as to the possible issues." Lydgate was going toexplain why he had told Dorothea, but Mr. Casaubon, with anunmistakable desire to end the conversation, waved his hand slightly,and said again, "I thank you," proceeding to remark on the rare beauty ofthe day.
Lydgate, certain that his patient wished to be alone, soon left him;and the black figure with hands behind and head bent forward continuedto pace the walk where the dark yew-trees gave him a mutecompanionship in melancholy, and the little shadows of bird or leaf thatfleeted across the isles of sunlight, stole along in silence as in thepresence of a sorrow. Here was a man who now for the first time foundhimself looking into the eyes of death—who was passing through one ofthose rare moments of experience when we feel the truth of acommonplace, which is as different from what we call knowing it, as thevision of waters upon the earth is different from the delirious vision ofthe water which cannot be had to cool the burning tongue. When thecommonplace "We must all die" transforms itself suddenly into the acuteconsciousness "I must die—and soon," then death grapples us, and hisfingers are cruel; afterwards, he may come to fold us in his arms as ourmother did, and our last moment of dim earthly discerning may be likethe first. To Mr. Casaubon now, it was as if he suddenly found himselfon the dark river-brink and heard the plash of the oncoming oar, notdiscerning the forms, but expecting the summons. In such an hour themind does not change its lifelong bias, but carries it onward inimagination to the other side of death, gazing backward—perhaps withthe divine calm of beneficence, perhaps with the petty anxieties of self-assertion. What was Mr. Casaubon's bias his acts will give us a clew to.He held himself to be, with some private scholarly reservations, abelieving Christian, as to estimates of the present and hopes of thefuture. But what we strive to gratify, though we may call it a distanthope, is an immediate desire: the future estate for which men drudge upcity alleys exists already in their imagination and love. And Mr.Casaubon's immediate desire was not for divine communion and lightdivested of earthly conditions; his passionate longings, poor man, clunglow and mist-like in very shady places.
Dorothea had been aware when Lydgate had ridden away, and shehad stepped into the garden, with the impulse to go at once to herhusband. But she hesitated, fearing to offend him by obtruding herself;for her ardor, continually repulsed, served, with her intense memory, toheighten her dread, as thwarted energy subsides into a shudder; and shewandered slowly round the nearer clumps of trees until she saw himadvancing. Then she went towards him, and might have represented aheaven-sent angel coming with a promise that the short hours remainingshould yet be filled with that faithful love which clings the closer to acomprehended grief. His glance in reply to hers was so chill that she felther timidity increased; yet she turned and passed her hand through hisarm.
