CHAPTER XX.

“A child forsaken¹, waking suddenly,

Whose gaze afeard on all things round doth rove,

And seeth only that it cannot see

The meeting eyes of love.”

Two hours later, Dorothea was seated in an inner room or boudoir of a handsome apartment in the Via Sistina.

I am sorry to add that she was sobbing² bitterly, with such abandonment to this relief of an oppressed heart as a woman habitually⁴ controlled by pride on her own account and thoughtfulness for others will sometimes allow herself when she feels securely alone. And Mr. Casaubon was certain to remain away for some time at the Vatican.

Yet Dorothea had no distinctly shapen grievance⁵ that she could state even to herself; and in the midst of her confused thought and passion, the mental act that was struggling forth⁶ into clearness was a self-accusing cry that her feeling of desolation was the fault of her own spiritual poverty. She had married the man of her choice, and with the advantage over most girls that she had contemplated⁷ her marriage chiefly as the beginning of new duties: from the very first she had thought of Mr. Casaubon as having a mind so much above her own, that he must often be claimed by studies which she could not entirely⁸ share; moreover, after the brief narrow experience of her girlhood she was beholding⁹ Rome, the city of visible history, where the past of a whole hemisphere seems moving in funeral procession with strange ancestral images and trophies¹⁰ gathered from afar.

But this stupendous fragmentariness heightened the dreamlike strangeness of her bridal life. Dorothea had now been five weeks in Rome, and in the kindly¹¹ mornings when autumn and winter seemed to go hand in hand like a happy aged couple one of whom would presently survive in chiller loneliness, she had driven about at first with Mr. Casaubon, but of late chiefly with Tantripp and their experienced courier. She had been led through the best galleries, had been taken to the chief points of view, had been shown the grandest ruins and the most glorious churches, and she had ended by oftenest choosing to drive out to the Campagna where she could feel alone with the earth and sky, away-from the oppressive masquerade of ages, in which her own life too seemed to become a masque with enigmatical costumes.

To those who have looked at Rome with the quickening power of a knowledge which breathes a growing soul into all historic shapes, and traces out the suppressed transitions which unite all contrasts, Rome may still be the spiritual centre and interpreter of the world. But let them conceive one more historical contrast: the gigantic broken revelations of that Imperial and Papal city thrust abruptly¹² on the notions of a girl who had been brought up in English and Swiss Puritanism, fed on meagre Protestant histories and on art chiefly of the hand-screen sort; a girl whose ardent¹³ nature turned all her small allowance of knowledge into principles, fusing her actions into their mould, and whose quick emotions gave the most abstract things the quality of a pleasure or a pain; a girl who had lately become a wife, and from the enthusiastic¹⁴ acceptance of untried duty found herself plunged¹⁵ in tumultuous preoccupation with her personal lot. The weight of unintelligible¹⁶ Rome might lie easily on bright nymphs to whom it formed a background for the brilliant picnic of Anglo-foreign society; but Dorothea had no such defence against deep impressions. Ruins and basilicas, palaces and colossi, set in the midst of a sordid¹⁷ present, where all that was living and warm-blooded seemed sunk in the deep degeneracy of a superstition¹⁸ divorced from reverence¹⁹; the dimmer but yet eager Titanic²⁰ life gazing and struggling on walls and ceilings; the long vistas²¹ of white forms whose marble eyes seemed to hold the monotonous²² light of an alien world: all this vast wreck²³ of ambitious ideals, sensuous²⁴ and spiritual, mixed confusedly with the signs of breathing forgetfulness and degradation²⁵, at first jarred her as with an electric shock, and then urged themselves on her with that ache belonging to a glut²⁶ of confused ideas which check the flow of emotion. Forms both pale and glowing took possession of her young sense, and fixed²⁷ themselves in her memory even when she was not thinking of them, preparing strange associations which remained through her after-years. Our moods are apt to bring with them images which succeed each other like the magic-lantern pictures of a doze²⁸; and in certain states of dull forlornness Dorothea all her life continued to see the vastness of St. Peter’s, the huge bronze canopy²⁹, the excited intention in the attitudes and garments of the prophets and evangelists in the mosaics³⁰ above, and the red drapery which was being hung for Christmas spreading itself everywhere like a disease of the retina.

Not that this inward amazement³¹ of Dorothea’s was anything very exceptional: many souls in their young nudity are tumbled out among incongruities³² and left to “find their feet” among them, while their elders go about their business. Nor can I suppose that when Mrs. Casaubon is discovered in a fit of weeping six weeks after her wedding, the situation will be regarded as tragic³³. Some discouragement, some faintness of heart at the new real future which replaces the imaginary, is not unusual, and we 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 not yet wrought³⁴ itself into the coarse emotion of mankind; and perhaps our frames could hardly bear much of it. If we had a keen vision and feeling of all ordinary human life, it would be like hearing the grass grow and the squirrel’s heart beat, and we should die of that roar which lies on the other side of silence. As it is, the quickest of us walk about well wadded with stupidity.

However, Dorothea was crying, and if she had been required to state the cause, she could only have done so in some such general words as I have already used: to have been driven to be more particular would have been like trying to give a history of the lights and shadows, for that new real future which was replacing the imaginary drew its material from the endless minutiae³⁵ by which her view of Mr. Casaubon and her wifely relation, now that she was married to him, was gradually changing with the secret motion of a watch-hand from what it had been in her maiden³⁶ dream. It was too early yet for her fully to recognize or at least admit the change, still more for her to have readjusted that devotedness³⁷ which was so necessary a part of her mental life that she was almost sure sooner or later to recover it. Permanent rebellion, the disorder³⁸ of a life without some loving reverent³⁹ resolve, was not possible to her; but she was now in an interval⁴⁰ when the very force of her nature heightened its confusion. In this way, the early months of marriage often are times of critical tumult—whether that of a shrimp-pool or of deeper waters—which afterwards subsides⁴¹ into cheerful peace.

But was not Mr. Casaubon just as learned as before? Had his forms of expression changed, or his sentiments become less laudable? Oh waywardness of womanhood! did his chronology fail him, or his ability to state not only a theory but the names of those who held it; or his provision for giving the heads of any subject on demand? And was not Rome the place in all the world to give free play to such accomplishments⁴²? Besides, had not Dorothea’s enthusiasm especially dwelt on the prospect⁴⁴ of relieving the weight and perhaps the sadness with which great tasks lie on him who has to achieve them?— And that such weight pressed on Mr. Casaubon was only plainer than before.

All these are crushing questions; but whatever else remained the same, the light had changed, and you cannot find the pearly dawn at noonday. The fact is unalterable, that a fellow-mortal with whose nature you are acquainted solely⁴⁵ through the brief entrances and exits of a few imaginative weeks called courtship, may, when seen in the continuity of married companionship, be disclosed as something better or worse than what you have preconceived, but will certainly not appear altogether the same. And it would be astonishing to find how soon the change is felt if we had no kindred changes to compare with it. To share lodgings⁴⁶ with a brilliant dinner-companion, or to see your favorite politician in the Ministry⁴⁷, may bring about changes quite as rapid: in these cases too we begin by knowing little and believing much, and we sometimes end by inverting⁴⁸ the quantities.

Still, such comparisons might mislead, for no man was more incapable⁴⁹ of flashy make-believe than Mr. Casaubon: he was as genuine a character as any ruminant animal, and he had not actively⁵⁰ assisted in creating any illusions about himself. How was it that in the weeks since her marriage, Dorothea had not distinctly observed but felt with a stifling⁵¹ depression, that the large vistas and wide fresh air which she had dreamed of finding in her husband’s mind were replaced by anterooms and winding⁵² passages which seemed to lead nowhither? I suppose it was that in courtship everything is regarded as provisional and preliminary, and the smallest sample of virtue⁵³ or accomplishment⁴³ is taken to guarantee delightful⁵⁴ stores which the broad leisure of marriage will reveal. But the door-sill of marriage once crossed, expectation is concentrated on the present. Having once embarked⁵⁵ on your marital⁵⁶ voyage, it is impossible not to be aware that you make no way and that the sea is not within sight—that, in fact, you are exploring an enclosed basin.

In their conversation before marriage, Mr. Casaubon had often dwelt on some explanation or questionable⁵⁷ detail of which Dorothea did not see the bearing; but such imperfect coherence⁵⁸ seemed due to the brokenness of their intercourse⁵⁹, and, supported by her faith in their future, she had listened with fervid⁶⁰ patience to a recitation of possible arguments to be brought against Mr. Casaubon’s entirely new view of the Philistine⁶¹ god Dagon and other fish-deities⁶², thinking that hereafter she should see this subject which touched him so nearly from the same high ground whence doubtless it had become so important to him. Again, the matter-of-course statement and tone of dismissal with which he treated what to her were the most stirring thoughts, was easily accounted for as belonging to the sense of haste and preoccupation in which she herself shared during their engagement. But now, since they had been in Rome, with all the depths of her emotion roused to tumultuous activity, and with life made a new problem by new elements, she had been becoming more and more aware, with a certain terror, that her mind was continually sliding into inward fits of anger and repulsion, or else into forlorn weariness. How far the judicious⁶³ Hooker or any other hero of erudition would have been the same at Mr. Casaubon’s time of life, she had no means of knowing, so that he could not have the advantage of comparison; but her husband’s way of commenting on the strangely impressive objects around them had begun to affect her with a sort of mental shiver: he had perhaps the best intention of acquitting⁶⁴ himself worthily⁶⁵, but only of acquitting himself. What was fresh to her mind was worn out to his; and such capacity of thought and feeling as had ever been stimulated⁶⁶ in him by the general life of mankind had long shrunk to a sort of dried preparation, a lifeless embalmment⁶⁷ of knowledge.

When he said, “Does this interest you, Dorothea? Shall we stay a little longer? I am ready to stay if you wish it,”—it seemed to her as if going or staying were alike dreary⁶⁸. Or, “Should you like to go to the Farnesina, Dorothea? It contains celebrated⁶⁹ frescos designed or painted by 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 esteemed⁷⁰. Some of them represent the fable⁷¹ of Cupid and Psyche⁷², which is probably the romantic invention of a literary period, and cannot, I think, be reckoned as a genuine mythical⁷³ product. But if you like these wall-paintings we can easily drive thither⁷⁴; and you will then, I think, have seen the chief works of Raphael, any of which it were a pity to omit in a visit to Rome. He is the painter who has been held to combine the most complete grace of form with sublimity⁷⁵ of expression. Such at least I have gathered to be the opinion of cognoscenti.”

This kind of answer given in a measured official tone, as of a clergyman reading according to the rubric, did not help to justify⁷⁶ the glories of the Eternal City, or to give her the hope that if she knew more about them the world would be joyously⁷⁷ illuminated⁷⁸ for her. There is hardly any contact more depressing to a young ardent creature than that of a mind in which years full of knowledge seem to have issued in a blank absence of interest or sympathy.

On other subjects indeed Mr. Casaubon showed a tenacity⁷⁹ of occupation and an eagerness which are usually regarded as the effect of enthusiasm, and Dorothea was anxious to follow this spontaneous direction of his thoughts, instead of being made to feel that she dragged him away from it. But she was gradually ceasing to expect with her former delightful confidence that she should see any wide opening where she followed him. Poor Mr. Casaubon himself was lost among small closets and winding stairs, and in an agitated⁸⁰ dimness about the Cabeiri, or in an exposure of other mythologists’ ill-considered parallels, easily lost sight of any purpose which had prompted him to these labors⁸¹. With his taper⁸² stuck before him he forgot the absence of windows, and in bitter 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 had been encouraged to pour forth her girlish and womanly feeling—if he would have held her hands between his and listened with the delight of tenderness and understanding to all the little histories which made up her experience, and would have given her the same sort of intimacy⁸³ in return, so that the past life of each could be included in their mutual⁸⁴ knowledge and affection—or if she could have fed her affection with those childlike caresses⁸⁵ which are the bent⁸⁶ of every sweet woman, who has begun by showering kisses on the hard pate⁸⁷ of her bald doll, creating a happy soul within that woodenness from the wealth of her own love. That was Dorothea’s bent. With all her yearning⁸⁸ to know what was afar from her and to be widely benignant, she had ardor⁸⁹ enough for what was near, to have kissed Mr. Casaubon’s coat-sleeve, or to have caressed⁹⁰ his shoe-latchet, if he would have made any other sign of acceptance than pronouncing her, with his unfailing propriety⁹¹, to be of a most affectionate and truly feminine nature, indicating at the same time by politely reaching a chair for her that he regarded these manifestations⁹² as rather crude and startling. Having made his clerical toilet with due care in the morning, he was prepared only for those amenities⁹³ of life which were suited to the well-adjusted stiff cravat⁹⁴ of the period, and to a mind weighted with unpublished matter.

And by a sad contradiction Dorothea’s ideas and resolves seemed like melting ice floating and lost in the warm flood of which they had been but another form. She was humiliated⁹⁵ to find herself a mere⁹⁶ victim of feeling, as if she could know nothing except through that medium: all her strength was scattered⁹⁷ in fits of agitation⁹⁸, of struggle, of despondency, and then again in visions of more complete renunciation, transforming all hard conditions into duty. Poor Dorothea! she was certainly troublesome—to herself chiefly; but this morning for the first time she had been troublesome to Mr. Casaubon.

She had begun, while they were taking coffee, with a determination to shake off what she inwardly called her selfishness, and turned a face all cheerful attention to her husband when he said, “My dear Dorothea, we must now think of all that is yet left undone⁹⁹, as a preliminary to our departure. I would fain have returned home earlier that we might have been at Lowick for the Christmas; but my inquiries¹⁰⁰ here have been protracted¹⁰¹ beyond their anticipated period. I trust, however, that the time here has not been passed unpleasantly to you. Among the sights of Europe, that of Rome has ever been held one of the most striking and in some respects edifying¹⁰². I well remember that I considered it an epoch¹⁰³ in my life when I visited it for the first time; after the fall of Napoleon, an event which opened the Continent to travellers. Indeed I think it is one among several cities to which an extreme hyperbole has been applied—‘See Rome and die:’ but in your case I would propose an emendation and say, See Rome as a bride, and live henceforth as a happy wife.”

Mr. Casaubon pronounced this little speech with the most conscientious¹⁰⁴ intention, blinking a little and swaying his head up and down, and concluding with a smile. He had not found marriage a rapturous state, but he had no idea of being anything else than an irreproachable¹⁰⁵ husband, who would make a charming young woman as happy as she deserved to be.

“I hope you are thoroughly¹⁰⁶ satisfied with our stay—I mean, with the result so far as your studies are concerned,” said Dorothea, trying to keep her mind fixed on what most affected¹⁰⁷ her husband.

“Yes,” said Mr. Casaubon, with that peculiar¹⁰⁸ pitch of voice which makes the word half a negative. “I have been led farther than I had foreseen, and various subjects for annotation¹⁰⁹ have presented themselves which, though I have no direct need of them, I could not pretermit. The task, notwithstanding the assistance of my amanuensis, has been a somewhat laborious¹¹⁰ one, but your society has happily prevented me from that too continuous prosecution¹¹¹ of thought beyond the hours of study which has been the snare¹¹² of my solitary¹¹³ 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 had supposed that Mr. Casaubon’s mind had gone too deep during the day to be able to get to the surface again. I fear there was a little temper in her reply. “I hope when we get to Lowick, I shall be more useful to you, and be able to enter a little more into what interests you.”

“Doubtless, my dear,” said Mr. Casaubon, with a slight bow. “The notes I have here made will want sifting¹¹⁴, and you can, if you please, extract them under my direction.”

“And all your notes,” said Dorothea, whose heart had already burned within her on this subject, so that now she could not help speaking with her tongue. “All those rows of volumes—will you not now do what you used to speak of?—will you not make up your mind what part of them you will use, and begin to write the book which will make your vast knowledge useful to the world? I will write to your dictation, or I will copy and extract what you tell me: I can be of no other use.” Dorothea, in a most unaccountable, darkly feminine manner, ended with a slight sob³ and eyes full of tears.

The excessive feeling manifested would alone have been highly disturbing to Mr. Casaubon, but there were other reasons why Dorothea’s words were among the most cutting and irritating to him that she could have been impelled¹¹⁵ to use. She was as blind to his inward troubles as he to hers: she had not yet learned those hidden conflicts in her husband which claim our pity. She had not yet listened patiently to his heartbeats, but only felt that her own was beating violently. In Mr. Casaubon’s ear, Dorothea’s voice gave loud emphatic¹¹⁶ iteration to those muffled¹¹⁷ suggestions of consciousness which it was possible to explain as mere fancy, the illusion of exaggerated sensitiveness: always when such suggestions are unmistakably repeated from without, they are resisted as cruel and unjust. We are angered even by the full acceptance of our humiliating confessions—how much more by hearing in hard distinct syllables¹¹⁸ from the lips of a near observer, those confused murmurs¹¹⁹ which we try to call morbid¹²⁰, and strive against as if they were the oncoming of numbness¹²¹! And this cruel outward accuser was there in the shape of a wife—nay, of a young bride, who, instead of observing his abundant pen-scratches and amplitude¹²² of paper with the uncritical awe¹²³ of an elegant-minded canary-bird, seemed to present herself as a spy watching everything with a malign¹²⁴ power of inference. Here, towards this particular point of the compass, Mr. Casaubon had a sensitiveness to match Dorothea’s, and an equal quickness to imagine more than the fact. He had formerly¹²⁵ observed with approbation¹²⁶ her capacity for worshipping the right object; he now foresaw with sudden terror that this capacity might be replaced by presumption¹²⁷, this worship by the most exasperating¹²⁸ of all criticism,—that which sees vaguely¹²⁹ a great many fine ends, and has not the least notion what it costs to reach them.

For the first time since Dorothea had known him, Mr. Casaubon’s face had a quick angry flush upon it.

“My love,” he said, with irritation¹³⁰ reined¹³¹ in by propriety, “you may rely upon me for knowing the times and the seasons, adapted to the different stages of a work which is not to be measured by the facile conjectures¹³² of ignorant onlookers¹³³. It had been easy for me to gain a temporary effect by a mirage¹³⁴ of baseless opinion; but it is ever the trial of the scrupulous¹³⁵ explorer to be saluted¹³⁶ with the impatient scorn of chatterers who attempt only the smallest achievements, being indeed equipped for no other. And it were well if all such could be admonished¹³⁷ to discriminate¹³⁸ judgments¹³⁹ of which the true subject-matter lies entirely beyond their reach, from those of which the elements may be compassed by a narrow and superficial survey.”

This speech was delivered with an energy and readiness quite unusual with Mr. Casaubon. It was not indeed entirely an improvisation¹⁴¹, but had taken shape in inward colloquy¹⁴², and rushed out like the round grains from a fruit when sudden heat cracks it. Dorothea was not only his wife: she was a personification of that shallow world which surrounds the appreciated or desponding author.

Dorothea was indignant in her turn. Had she not been repressing everything in herself except the desire to enter into some fellowship with her husband’s chief interests?

“My judgment¹⁴⁰ was a very superficial one—such as I am capable of forming,” she answered, with a prompt resentment¹⁴³, that needed no rehearsal¹⁴⁴. “You showed me the rows of notebooks—you have often spoken of them—you have often said that they wanted digesting. But I never heard you speak of the writing that is to be published. Those were very simple facts, and my judgment went no farther. I only begged you to 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 were shocked at their mutual situation—that each should have betrayed anger towards the other. If they had been at home, settled at Lowick in ordinary life among their neighbors, the clash would have been less embarrassing: but on a wedding journey, the express object of which is to isolate¹⁴⁵ two people on the ground that they are all the world to each other, the sense of disagreement is, to say the least, confounding and stultifying¹⁴⁶. To have changed your longitude¹⁴⁷ extensively and placed yourselves in a moral solitude¹⁴⁸ in order to have small explosions, to find conversation difficult and to hand a glass of water without looking, can hardly be regarded as satisfactory fulfilment even to the toughest minds. To Dorothea’s inexperienced sensitiveness, it seemed like a catastrophe¹⁴⁹, changing all prospects¹⁵⁰; and to Mr. Casaubon it was a new pain, he never having been on a wedding journey before, or found himself in that close union which was more of a subjection than he had been able to imagine, since this charming young bride not only obliged him to much consideration on her behalf (which he had sedulously¹⁵¹ given), but turned out to be capable of agitating¹⁵² him cruelly just where he most needed soothing¹⁵³. Instead of getting a soft fence against the cold, shadowy, unapplausive audience of his life, had he only given it a more substantial presence?

Neither of them felt it possible to speak again at present. To have reversed a previous arrangement and declined to go out would have been a show of persistent¹⁵⁴ anger which Dorothea’s conscience shrank from, seeing that she already began to feel herself guilty. However just her indignation might be, her ideal was not to claim justice, but to give tenderness. So when the carriage came to the door, she drove with Mr. Casaubon to the Vatican, walked with him through the stony¹⁵⁵ avenue of inscriptions¹⁵⁶, and when she parted with him at the entrance to the Library, went on through the Museum out of mere listlessness as to what was around her. She had not spirit to turn round and say that she would drive anywhere. It was when Mr. Casaubon was quitting her that Naumann had first seen her, and he had entered the long gallery of sculpture at the same time with her; but here Naumann had to await Ladislaw with whom he was to settle a bet of champagne¹⁵⁷ about an enigmatical mediaeval-looking figure there. After they had examined the figure, and had walked on finishing their dispute, they had parted, Ladislaw lingering behind while Naumann had gone into the Hall of Statues where he again saw Dorothea, and saw her in that brooding abstraction which made her pose remarkable¹⁵⁸. She did not really see the streak¹⁵⁹ of sunlight on the floor more than she saw the statues: she was inwardly seeing the light of years to come in her own home and over the English fields and elms and hedge-bordered highroads; and feeling that the way in which they might be filled with joyful devotedness was not so clear to her as it had been. But in Dorothea’s mind there was a current into which all thought and feeling were apt sooner or later to flow—the reaching forward of the whole consciousness towards the fullest truth, the least partial good. There was clearly something better than anger and despondency.