I found that no genius in another could please me. My unfortunate paradoxes¹ had entirely² dried up that source of comfort.—GOLDSMITH.

One morning, some weeks after her arrival at Lowick, Dorothea—but why always Dorothea? Was her point of view the only possible one with regard to this marriage? I protest against all our interest, all our effort at understanding being given to the young skins that look blooming in spite of trouble; for these too will get faded, and will know the older and more eating griefs which we are helping³ to neglect. In spite of the blinking eyes and white moles⁴ objectionable to Celia, and the want of muscular curve which was morally painful to Sir James, Mr. Casaubon had an intense consciousness within him, and was spiritually a-hungered like the rest of us. He had done nothing exceptional in marrying—nothing but what society sanctions, and considers an occasion for wreaths and bouquets⁵. It had occurred to him that he must not any longer defer⁶ his intention of matrimony, and he had reflected that in taking a wife, a man of good position should expect and carefully choose a blooming young lady—the younger the better, because more educable and submissive—of a rank equal to his own, of religious principles, virtuous⁷ disposition⁸, and good understanding. On such a young lady he would make handsome settlements, and he would neglect no arrangement for her happiness: in return, he should receive family pleasures and leave behind him that copy of himself which seemed so urgently required of a man—to the sonneteers of the sixteenth century. Times had altered since then, and no sonneteer had insisted on Mr. Casaubon’s leaving a copy of himself; moreover, he had not yet succeeded in issuing copies of his mythological⁹ key; but he had always intended to acquit¹⁰ himself by marriage, and the sense that he was fast leaving the years behind him, that the world was getting dimmer and that he felt lonely, was a reason to him for losing no more time in overtaking domestic delights before they too were left behind by the years.

And when he had seen Dorothea he believed that he had found even more than he demanded: she might really be such a helpmate to him as would enable him to dispense¹¹ with a hired secretary, an aid which Mr. Casaubon had never yet employed and had a suspicious dread¹² of. (Mr. Casaubon was nervously¹³ conscious that he was expected to manifest a powerful mind.) Providence¹⁴, in its kindness, had supplied him with the wife he needed. A wife, a modest young lady, with the purely¹⁵ appreciative¹⁶, unambitious abilities of her sex, is sure to think her husband’s mind powerful. Whether Providence had taken equal care of Miss Brooke in presenting her with Mr. Casaubon was an idea which could hardly occur to him. Society never made the preposterous¹⁷ demand that a man should think as much about his own qualifications for making a charming girl happy as he thinks of hers for making himself happy. As if a man could choose not only his wife but his wife’s husband! Or as if he were bound to provide charms for his posterity¹⁸ in his own person!— When Dorothea accepted him with effusion, that was only natural; and Mr. Casaubon believed that his happiness was going to begin.

He had not had much foretaste of happiness in his previous life. To know intense joy without a strong bodily frame, one must have an enthusiastic¹⁹ soul. Mr. Casaubon had never had a strong bodily frame, and his soul was sensitive without being enthusiastic: it was too languid to thrill out of self-consciousness into passionate²⁰ delight; it went on fluttering in the swampy²¹ ground where it was hatched, thinking of its wings and never flying. His experience was of that pitiable kind which shrinks from pity, and fears most of all that it should be known: it was that proud narrow sensitiveness which has not mass enough to spare for transformation²² into sympathy, and quivers thread-like in small currents of self-preoccupation or at best of an egoistic scrupulosity²³. And Mr. Casaubon had many scruples²⁴: he was capable of a severe self-restraint; he was resolute²⁵ in being a man of honor according to the code; he would be unimpeachable²⁶ by any recognized opinion. In conduct these ends had been attained²⁷; but the difficulty of making his Key to all Mythologies²⁸ unimpeachable weighed like lead upon his mind; and the pamphlets—or “Parerga” as he called them—by which he tested his public and deposited small monumental records of his march, were far from having been seen in all their significance. He suspected the Archdeacon of not having read them; he was in painful doubt as to what was really thought of them by the leading minds of Brasenose, and bitterly convinced that his old acquaintance Carp had been the writer of that depreciatory²⁹ recension which was kept locked in a small drawer of Mr. Casaubon’s desk, and also in a dark closet of his verbal memory. These were heavy impressions to struggle against, and brought that melancholy³⁰ embitterment³¹ which is the consequence³² of all excessive claim: even his religious faith wavered with his wavering trust in his own authorship, and the consolations³³ of the Christian³⁴ hope in immortality³⁵ seemed to lean on the immortality of the still unwritten Key to all Mythologies. For my part I am very sorry for him. It is an uneasy lot at best, to be what we call highly taught and yet not to enjoy: to be present at this great spectacle of life and never to be liberated³⁶ from a small hungry shivering self—never to be fully possessed³⁷ by the glory we behold³⁸, never to have our consciousness rapturously transformed into the vividness of a thought, the ardor³⁹ of a passion, the energy of an action, but always to be scholarly and uninspired, ambitious and timid, scrupulous⁴⁰ and dim-sighted. Becoming a dean or even a bishop⁴¹ would make little difference, I fear, to Mr. Casaubon’s uneasiness. Doubtless some ancient Greek has observed that behind the big mask and the speaking-trumpet, there must always be our poor little eyes peeping as usual and our timorous⁴² lips more or less under anxious control.

To this mental estate⁴³ mapped out a quarter of a century before, to sensibilities thus fenced in, Mr. Casaubon had thought of annexing⁴⁴ happiness with a lovely young bride; but even before marriage, as we have seen, he found himself under a new depression in the consciousness that the new bliss⁴⁵ was not blissful to him. Inclination⁴⁶ yearned⁴⁷ back to its old, easier custom. And the deeper he went in domesticity the more did the sense of acquitting⁴⁸ himself and acting⁴⁹ with propriety⁵⁰ predominate over any other satisfaction. Marriage, like religion and erudition, nay⁵¹, like authorship itself, was fated to become an outward requirement, and Edward Casaubon was bent⁵² on fulfilling unimpeachably⁵³ all requirements. Even drawing Dorothea into use in his study, according to his own intention before marriage, was an effort which he was always tempted⁵⁴ to defer, and but for her pleading insistence⁵⁵ it might never have begun. But she had succeeded in making it a matter of course that she should take her place at an early hour in the library and have work either of reading aloud or copying assigned her. The work had been easier to define because Mr. Casaubon had adopted an immediate⁵⁶ intention: there was to be a new Parergon, a small monograph⁵⁷ on some lately traced indications concerning the Egyptian mysteries whereby certain assertions of Warburton’s could be corrected. References were extensive even here, but not altogether shoreless; and sentences were actually to be written in the shape wherein they would be scanned by Brasenose and a less formidable posterity. These minor⁵⁸ monumental productions were always exciting to Mr. Casaubon; digestion⁵⁹ was made difficult by the interference of citations⁶⁰, or by the rivalry⁶¹ of dialectical phrases ringing against each other in his brain. And from the first there was to be a Latin dedication⁶² about which everything was uncertain except that it was not to be addressed to Carp: it was a poisonous regret to Mr. Casaubon that he had once addressed a dedication to Carp in which he had numbered that member of the animal kingdom among the viros nullo ævo perituros, a mistake which would infallibly lay the dedicator open to ridicule⁶³ in the next age, and might even be chuckled⁶⁴ over by Pike and Tench in the present.

Thus Mr. Casaubon was in one of his busiest epochs, and as I began to say a little while ago, Dorothea joined him early in the library where he had breakfasted alone. Celia at this time was on a second visit to Lowick, probably the last before her marriage, and was in the drawing-room expecting Sir James.

Dorothea had learned to read the signs of her husband’s mood, and she saw that the morning had become more foggy there during the last hour. She was going silently to her desk when he said, in that distant tone which implied that he was discharging a disagreeable duty—

“Dorothea, here is a letter for you, which was enclosed in one addressed to me.”

It was a letter of two pages, and she immediately looked at the signature.

“Mr. Ladislaw! What can he have to say to me?” she exclaimed, in a tone of pleased surprise. “But,” she added, looking at Mr. Casaubon, “I can imagine what he has written to you about.”

“You can, if you please, read the letter,” said Mr. Casaubon, severely⁶⁵ pointing to it with his pen, and not looking at her. “But I may as well say beforehand, that I must decline the proposal it contains to pay a visit here. I trust I may be excused for desiring an interval⁶⁶ of complete freedom from such distractions⁶⁷ as have been hitherto inevitable⁶⁸, and especially from guests whose desultory⁶⁹ vivacity⁷⁰ makes their presence a fatigue⁷¹.”

There had been no clashing of temper between Dorothea and her husband since that little explosion in Rome, which had left such strong traces in her mind that it had been easier ever since to quell⁷² emotion than to incur⁷³ the consequence of venting⁷⁴ it. But this ill-tempered anticipation⁷⁵ that she could desire visits which might be disagreeable to her husband, this gratuitous⁷⁶ defence of himself against selfish complaint on her part, was too sharp a sting to be meditated⁷⁷ on until after it had been resented. Dorothea had thought that she could have been patient with John Milton, but she had never imagined him behaving in this way; and for a moment Mr. Casaubon seemed to be stupidly undiscerning and odiously⁷⁸ unjust. Pity, that “new-born babe” which was by-and-by to rule many a storm within her, did not “stride the blast” on this occasion. With her first words, uttered in a tone that shook him, she startled Mr. Casaubon into looking at her, and meeting the flash of her eyes.

“Why do you attribute to me a wish for anything that would annoy you? You speak to me as if I were something you had to contend against. Wait at least till I appear to consult my own pleasure apart from yours.”

“Dorothea, you are hasty,” answered Mr. Casaubon, nervously.

Decidedly, this woman was too young to be on the formidable level of wifehood—unless she had been pale and featureless and taken everything for granted.

“I think it was you who were first hasty in your false suppositions about my feeling,” said Dorothea, in the same tone. The fire was not dissipated yet, and she thought it was ignoble⁷⁹ in her husband not to apologize to her.

“We will, if you please, say no more on this subject, Dorothea. I have neither leisure nor energy for this kind of debate.”

Here Mr. Casaubon dipped his pen and made as if he would return to his writing, though his hand trembled so much that the words seemed to be written in an unknown character. There are answers which, in turning away wrath⁸⁰, only send it to the other end of the room, and to have a discussion coolly waived⁸¹ when you feel that justice is all on your own side is even more exasperating⁸² in marriage than in philosophy.

Dorothea left Ladislaw’s two letters unread on her husband’s writing-table and went to her own place, the scorn and indignation within her rejecting the reading of these letters, just as we hurl⁸³ away any trash towards which we seem to have been suspected of mean cupidity⁸⁴. She did not in the least divine the subtle sources of her husband’s bad temper about these letters: she only knew that they had caused him to offend her. She began to work at once, and her hand did not tremble; on the contrary, in writing out the quotations⁸⁵ which had been given to her the day before, she felt that she was forming her letters beautifully, and it seemed to her that she saw the construction of the Latin she was copying, and which she was beginning to understand, more clearly than usual. In her indignation there was a sense of superiority, but it went out for the present in firmness of stroke, and did not compress itself into an inward articulate voice pronouncing the once “affable archangel” a poor creature.

There had been this apparent quiet for half an hour, and Dorothea had not looked away from her own table, when she heard the loud bang of a book on the floor, and turning quickly saw Mr. Casaubon on the library steps clinging forward as if he were in some bodily distress⁸⁶. She started up and bounded towards him in an instant: he was evidently in great straits for breath. Jumping on a stool she got close to his elbow and said with her whole soul melted into tender alarm—

“Can you lean on me, dear?”

He was still for two or three minutes, which seemed endless to her, unable to speak or move, gasping⁸⁷ for breath. When at last he descended⁸⁸ the three steps and fell backward in the large chair which Dorothea had drawn⁸⁹ close to the foot of the ladder, he no longer gasped⁹⁰ but seemed helpless and about to faint. Dorothea rang the bell violently, and presently Mr. Casaubon was helped to the couch: he did not faint, and was gradually reviving, when Sir James Chettam came in, having been met in the hall with the news that Mr. Casaubon had “had a fit in the library.”

“Good God! this is just what might have been expected,” was his immediate thought. If his prophetic soul had been urged to particularize, it seemed to him that “fits” would have been the definite expression alighted upon. He asked his informant, the butler, whether the doctor had been sent for. The butler never knew his master to want the doctor before; but would it not be right to send for a physician?

When Sir James entered the library, however, Mr. Casaubon could make some signs of his usual politeness, and Dorothea, who in the reaction from her first terror had been kneeling and sobbing⁹¹ by his side now rose and herself proposed that some one should ride off for a medical man.

“I recommend you to send for Lydgate,” said Sir James. “My mother has called him in, and she has found him uncommonly⁹² clever. She has had a poor opinion of the physicians since my father’s death.”

Dorothea appealed to her husband, and he made a silent sign of approval. So Mr. Lydgate was sent for and he came wonderfully soon, for the messenger, who was Sir James Chettam’s man and knew Mr. Lydgate, met him leading his horse along the Lowick road and giving his arm to Miss Vincy.

Celia, in the drawing-room, had known nothing of the trouble till Sir James told her of it. After Dorothea’s account, he no longer considered the illness a fit, but still something “of that nature.”

“Poor dear Dodo—how dreadful!” said Celia, feeling as much grieved as her own perfect happiness would allow. Her little hands were clasped, and enclosed by Sir James’s as a bud is enfolded by a liberal calyx. “It is very shocking that Mr. Casaubon should be ill; but I never did like him. And I think he is not half fond enough of Dorothea; and he ought to be, for I am sure no one else would have had him—do you think they would?”

“I always thought it a horrible sacrifice of your sister,” said Sir James.

“Yes. But poor Dodo never did do what other people do, and I think she never will.”

“She is a noble creature,” said the loyal-hearted Sir James. He had just had a fresh impression of this kind, as he had seen Dorothea stretching her tender arm under her husband’s neck and looking at him with unspeakable sorrow. He did not know how much penitence⁹³ there was in the sorrow.

“Yes,” said Celia, thinking it was very well for Sir James to say so, but he would not have been comfortable with Dodo. “Shall I go to her? Could I help her, do you think?”

“I think it would be well for you just to go and see her before Lydgate comes,” said Sir James, magnanimously. “Only don’t stay long.”

While Celia was gone he walked up and down remembering what he had originally felt about Dorothea’s engagement, and feeling a revival⁹⁴ of his disgust at Mr. Brooke’s indifference⁹⁵. If Cadwallader—if every one else had regarded the affair as he, Sir James, had done, the marriage might have been hindered. It was wicked to let a young girl blindly decide her fate in that way, without any effort to save her. Sir James had long ceased to have any regrets on his own account: his heart was satisfied with his engagement to Celia. But he had a chivalrous⁹⁶ nature (was not the disinterested⁹⁷ service of woman among the ideal glories of old chivalry⁹⁸?): his disregarded love had not turned to bitterness; its death had made sweet odors—floating memories that clung with a consecrating⁹⁹ effect to Dorothea. He could remain her brotherly friend, interpreting her actions with generous trustfulness.