How much, methinks, I could despise this man

Were I not bound in charity against it!

—SHAKESPEARE: Henry VIII.

One of the professional calls made by Lydgate soon after his return from his wedding-journey was to Lowick Manor¹, in consequence² of a letter which had requested him to fix a time for his visit.

Mr. Casaubon had never put any question concerning the nature of his illness to Lydgate, nor had he even to Dorothea betrayed any anxiety as to how far it might be likely to cut short his labors³ or his life. On this point, as on all others, he shrank from pity; and if the suspicion of being pitied for anything in his lot surmised⁴ or known in spite of himself was embittering⁵, the idea of calling forth⁶ a show of compassion⁷ by frankly⁸ admitting an alarm or a sorrow was necessarily intolerable to him. Every proud mind knows something of this experience, and perhaps it is only to be overcome by a sense of fellowship deep enough to make all efforts at isolation⁹ seem mean and petty instead of exalting¹⁰.

But Mr. Casaubon was now brooding over something through which the question of his health and life haunted his silence with a more harassing¹¹ importunity¹² even than through the autumnal unripeness¹³ of his authorship. It is true that this last might be called his central ambition; but there are some kinds of authorship in which by far the largest result is the uneasy susceptibility accumulated in the consciousness of the author—one knows of the river by a few streaks¹⁴ amid a long-gathered deposit of uncomfortable mud. That was the way with Mr. Casaubon’s hard intellectual labors. Their most characteristic result was not the “Key to all Mythologies,” but a morbid¹⁵ consciousness that others did not give him the place which he had not demonstrably merited—a perpetual suspicious conjecture¹⁶ that the views entertained of him were not to his advantage—a melancholy¹⁷ absence of passion in his efforts at achievement, and a passionate¹⁸ resistance to the confession¹⁹ that he had achieved nothing.

Thus his intellectual ambition which seemed to others to have absorbed and dried him, was really no security against wounds, least of all against those which came from Dorothea. And he had begun now to frame possibilities for the future which were somehow more embittering to him than anything his mind had dwelt on before.

Against certain facts he was helpless: against Will Ladislaw’s existence, his defiant²⁰ stay in the neighborhood of Lowick, and his flippant state of mind with regard to the possessors of authentic²¹, well-stamped erudition: against Dorothea’s nature, always taking on some new shape of ardent²² activity, and even in submission²³ and silence covering fervid²⁴ reasons which it was an irritation²⁵ to think of: against certain notions and likings which had taken possession of her mind in relation to subjects that he could not possibly discuss with her. There was no denying that Dorothea was as virtuous²⁶ and lovely a young lady as he could have obtained for a wife; but a young lady turned out to be something more troublesome than he had conceived. She nursed him, she read to him, she anticipated his wants, and was solicitous²⁷ about his feelings; but there had entered into the husband’s mind the certainty that she judged him, and that her wifely devotedness²⁸ was like a penitential expiation²⁹ of unbelieving thoughts—was accompanied with a power of comparison by which himself and his doings were seen too luminously³⁰ as a part of things in general. His discontent passed vapor-like through all her gentle loving manifestations³¹, and clung to that inappreciative world which she had only brought nearer to him.

Poor Mr. Casaubon! This suffering was the harder to bear because it seemed like a betrayal: the young creature who had worshipped him with perfect trust had quickly turned into the critical wife; and early instances of criticism and resentment³² had made an impression which no tenderness and submission afterwards could remove. To his suspicious interpretation³³ Dorothea’s silence now was a suppressed rebellion; a remark from her which he had not in any way anticipated was an assertion of conscious superiority; her gentle answers had an irritating cautiousness in them; and when she acquiesced³⁴ it was a self-approved effort of forbearance. The tenacity³⁵ with which he strove to hide this inward drama made it the more vivid for him; as we hear with the more keenness what we wish others not to hear.

Instead of wondering at this result of misery³⁶ in Mr. Casaubon, I think it quite ordinary. Will not a tiny speck³⁷ very close to our vision blot³⁸ out the glory of the world, and leave only a margin³⁹ by which we see the blot? I know no speck so troublesome as self. And who, if Mr. Casaubon had chosen to expound⁴⁰ his discontents—his suspicions that he was not any longer adored without criticism—could have denied that they were founded on good reasons? On the contrary, there was a strong reason to be added, which he had not himself taken explicitly⁴¹ into account—namely, that he was not unmixedly adorable. He suspected this, however, as he suspected other things, without confessing it, and like the rest of us, felt how soothing⁴² it would have been to have a companion who would never find it out.

This sore susceptibility in relation to Dorothea was thoroughly⁴³ prepared before Will Ladislaw had returned to Lowick, and what had occurred since then had brought Mr. Casaubon’s power of suspicious construction into exasperated⁴⁴ activity. To all the facts which he knew, he added imaginary facts both present and future which became more real to him than those because they called up a stronger dislike, a more predominating bitterness. Suspicion and jealousy⁴⁵ of Will Ladislaw’s intentions, suspicion and jealousy of Dorothea’s impressions, were constantly at their weaving work. It would be quite unjust to him to suppose that he could have entered into any coarse misinterpretation of Dorothea: his own habits of mind and conduct, quite as much as the open elevation⁴⁷ of her nature, saved him from any such mistake. What he was jealous of was her opinion, the sway that might be given to her ardent mind in its judgments⁴⁸, and the future possibilities to which these might lead her. As to Will, though until his last defiant letter he had nothing definite which he would choose formally to allege⁴⁹ against him, he felt himself warranted in believing that he was capable of any design which could fascinate a rebellious⁵⁰ temper and an undisciplined impulsiveness⁵¹. He was quite sure that Dorothea was the cause of Will’s return from Rome, and his determination to settle in the neighborhood; and he was penetrating⁵² enough to imagine that Dorothea had innocently encouraged this course. It was as clear as possible that she was ready to be attached to Will and to be pliant⁵³ to his suggestions: they had never had a tête-à-tête without her bringing away from it some new troublesome impression, and the last interview that Mr. Casaubon was aware of (Dorothea, on returning from Freshitt Hall, had for the first time been silent about having seen Will) had led to a scene which roused an angrier feeling against them both than he had ever known before. Dorothea’s outpouring of her notions about money, in the darkness of the night, had done nothing but bring a mixture of more odious⁵⁴ foreboding into her husband’s mind.

And there was the shock lately given to his health always sadly present with him. He was certainly much revived; he had recovered all his usual power of work: the illness might have been mere⁵⁵ fatigue⁵⁶, and there might still be twenty years of achievement before him, which would justify⁵⁷ the thirty years of preparation. That prospect⁵⁸ was made the sweeter by a flavor of vengeance⁵⁹ against the hasty sneers⁶⁰ of Carp & Company; for even when Mr. Casaubon was carrying his taper⁶¹ among the tombs of the past, those modern figures came athwart the dim light, and interrupted his diligent⁶² exploration. To convince Carp of his mistake, so that he would have to eat his own words with a good deal of indigestion, would be an agreeable accident of triumphant⁶³ authorship, which the prospect of living to future ages on earth and to all eternity⁶⁴ in heaven could not exclude from contemplation. Since, thus, the prevision of his own unending bliss⁶⁵ could not nullify the bitter savors⁶⁶ of irritated jealousy and vindictiveness⁶⁷, it is the less surprising that the probability of a transient earthly bliss for other persons, when he himself should have entered into glory, had not a potently⁶⁸ sweetening effect. If the truth should be that some undermining disease was at work within him, there might be large opportunity for some people to be the happier when he was gone; and if one of those people should be Will Ladislaw, Mr. Casaubon objected so strongly that it seemed as if the annoyance⁶⁹ would make part of his disembodied existence.

This is a very bare and therefore a very incomplete way of putting the case. The human soul moves in many channels, and Mr. Casaubon, we know, had a sense of rectitude and an honorable pride in satisfying the requirements of honor, which compelled him to find other reasons for his conduct than those of jealousy and vindictiveness. The way in which Mr. Casaubon put the case was this:—“In marrying Dorothea Brooke I had to care for her well-being⁷⁰ 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 might expose her to the more danger. She is ready prey⁷¹ to any man who knows how to play adroitly⁷² either on her affectionate ardor⁷³ or her Quixotic enthusiasm; and a man stands by with that very intention in his mind—a man with no other principle than transient caprice, and who has a personal animosity towards me—I am sure of it—an animosity which is fed by the consciousness of his ingratitude⁷⁴, and which he has constantly vented⁷⁵ in ridicule⁷⁶ of which I am as well assured as if I had heard it. Even if I live I shall not be without uneasiness as to what he may attempt through indirect influence. This man has gained Dorothea’s ear: he has fascinated her attention; he has evidently tried to impress her mind with the notion that he has claims beyond anything I have done for him. If I die—and he is waiting here on the watch for that—he will persuade her to marry him. That would be calamity⁷⁷ for her and success for him. She would not think it calamity: he would make her believe anything; she has a tendency to immoderate attachment⁷⁸ which she inwardly reproaches me for not responding to, and already her mind is occupied with his fortunes. 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 he ever persisted in anything except from contradiction? In knowledge he has always tried to be showy at small cost. In religion he could be, as long as it suited him, the facile echo of Dorothea’s vagaries⁷⁹. When was sciolism ever dissociated from laxity? I utterly⁸⁰ distrust his morals, and it is my duty to hinder to the utmost the fulfilment of his designs.”

The arrangements made by Mr. Casaubon on his marriage left strong measures open to him, but in ruminating⁸¹ on them his mind inevitably⁸² dwelt so much on the probabilities of his own life that the longing⁸³ to get the nearest possible calculation had at last overcome his proud reticence⁸⁴, and had determined⁸⁵ him to ask Lydgate’s opinion as to the nature of his illness.

He had mentioned to Dorothea that Lydgate was coming by appointment at half-past three, and in answer to her anxious question, whether he had felt ill, replied,—“No, I merely wish to have his opinion concerning some habitual⁸⁶ symptoms. You need not see him, my dear. I shall give orders that he may be sent to me in the Yew-tree Walk, where I shall be taking my usual exercise.”

When Lydgate entered the Yew-tree Walk he saw Mr. Casaubon slowly receding⁸⁷ with his hands behind him according to his habit, and his head bent⁸⁸ forward. It was a lovely afternoon; the leaves from the lofty limes were falling silently across the sombre evergreens⁸⁹, while the lights and shadows slept side by side: there was no sound but the cawing of the rooks, which to the accustomed ear is a lullaby, or that last solemn lullaby, a dirge⁹⁰. Lydgate, conscious of an energetic frame in its prime, felt some compassion when the figure which he was likely soon to overtake turned round, and in advancing towards him showed more markedly than ever the signs of premature⁹¹ age—the student’s bent shoulders, the emaciated⁹² limbs, and the melancholy lines of the mouth. “Poor fellow,” he thought, “some men with his years are like lions; one can tell nothing of their age except that they are full grown.”

“Mr. Lydgate,” said Mr. Casaubon, with his invariably polite air, “I am exceedingly obliged to you for your punctuality. We will, if you please, carry on our conversation in walking to and fro.”

“I hope your wish to see me is not due to the return of unpleasant symptoms,” said Lydgate, filling up a pause.

“Not immediately—no. In order to account for that wish I must mention—what it were otherwise needless to refer to—that my life, on all collateral⁹⁴ accounts insignificant⁹⁵, derives⁹⁶ a possible importance from the incompleteness of labors which have extended through all its best years. In short, I have long had on hand a work which I would fain leave behind me in such a state, at least, that it might be committed to the press by—others. Were I assured that this is the utmost I can reasonably expect, that assurance would be a useful circumscription⁹⁷ of my attempts, and a guide in both the positive and negative determination of my course.”

Here Mr. Casaubon paused, removed one hand from his back and thrust it between the buttons of his single-breasted coat. To a mind largely instructed in the human destiny hardly anything could be more interesting than the inward conflict implied in his formal measured address, delivered with the usual sing-song and motion of the head. Nay⁹⁸, are there many situations more sublimely¹⁰⁰ tragic¹⁰¹ than the struggle of the soul with the demand to renounce¹⁰² a work which has been all the significance of its life—a significance which is to vanish as the waters which come and go where no man has need of them? But there was nothing to strike others as sublime⁹⁹ about Mr. Casaubon, and Lydgate, who had some contempt at hand for futile¹⁰³ scholarship, felt a little amusement mingling¹⁰⁴ with his pity. He was at present too ill acquainted with disaster to enter into the pathos¹⁰⁵ of a lot where everything is below the level of tragedy except the passionate egoism of the sufferer.

“You refer to the possible hindrances¹⁰⁶ from want of health?” he said, wishing to help forward Mr. Casaubon’s purpose, which seemed to be clogged¹⁰⁷ by some hesitation¹⁰⁸.

“I do. You have not implied to me that the symptoms which—I am bound to testify—you watched with scrupulous¹⁰⁹ care, were those of a fatal disease. But were it so, Mr. Lydgate, I should desire to know the truth without reservation, and I appeal to you for an exact statement of your conclusions: I request it as a friendly service. If you can tell me that my life is not threatened by anything else than ordinary casualties, I shall 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; “but the first thing I must impress on you is that my conclusions are doubly uncertain—uncertain not only because of my fallibility, but because diseases of the heart are eminently¹¹⁰ difficult to found predictions on. In any case, one can hardly increase appreciably¹¹¹ the tremendous uncertainty¹¹² of life.”

Mr. Casaubon winced¹¹³ perceptibly, but bowed.

“I believe that you are suffering from what is called fatty degeneration of the heart, a disease which was first divined and explored by Laennec, the man who gave us the stethoscope, not so very many years ago. A good deal of experience—a more lengthened¹¹⁴ observation—is wanting on the subject. But after what you have said, it is my duty to tell you that death from this disease is often sudden. At the same time, no such result can be predicted. Your condition may be consistent with a tolerably comfortable life for another fifteen years, or even more. I could add no information to this beyond anatomical or medical details, which would leave expectation at precisely¹¹⁵ the same point.” Lydgate’s instinct was fine enough to tell him that plain speech, quite free from ostentatious caution, would be felt by Mr. Casaubon as a tribute of respect.

“I thank you, Mr. Lydgate,” said Mr. Casaubon, after a moment’s pause. “One thing more I have still to ask: did you communicate what you have now told me to Mrs. Casaubon?”

“Partly—I mean, as to the possible issues.” Lydgate was going to explain why he had told Dorothea, but Mr. Casaubon, with an unmistakable desire to end the conversation, waved his hand slightly, and said again, “I thank you,” proceeding¹¹⁶ to remark on the rare beauty of the day.

Lydgate, certain that his patient wished to be alone, soon left him; and the black figure with hands behind and head bent forward continued to pace the walk where the dark yew-trees gave him a mute companionship in melancholy, and the little shadows of bird or leaf that fleeted across the isles¹¹⁷ of sunlight, stole along in silence as in the presence of a sorrow. Here was a man who now for the first time found himself looking into the eyes of death—who was passing through one of those rare moments of experience when we feel the truth of a commonplace, which is as different from what we call knowing it, as the vision of waters upon the earth is different from the delirious¹¹⁸ vision of the water which cannot be had to cool the burning tongue. When the commonplace “We must all die” transforms itself suddenly into the acute consciousness “I must die—and soon,” then death grapples us, and his fingers are cruel; afterwards, he may come to fold us in his arms as our mother did, and our last moment of dim earthly discerning may be like the first. To Mr. Casaubon now, it was as if he suddenly found himself on the dark river-brink and heard the plash of the oncoming oar⁴⁶, not discerning the forms, but expecting the summons. In such an hour the mind does not change its lifelong bias¹¹⁹, but carries it onward¹²⁰ in imagination to the other side of death, gazing backward—perhaps with the 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, a believing Christian¹²¹, as to estimates of the present and hopes of the future. But what we strive to gratify, though we may call it a distant hope, is an immediate⁹³ desire: the future estate¹²² for which men drudge¹²³ up city alleys¹²⁴ exists already in their imagination and love. And Mr. Casaubon’s immediate desire was not for divine communion and light divested¹²⁵ of earthly conditions; his passionate longings¹²⁶, poor man, clung low and mist-like in very shady places.

Dorothea had been aware when Lydgate had ridden away, and she had stepped into the garden, with the impulse to go at once to her husband. But she hesitated, fearing to offend him by obtruding¹²⁷ herself; for her ardor, continually repulsed¹²⁸, served, with her intense memory, to heighten her dread¹²⁹, as thwarted¹³⁰ energy subsides¹³¹ into a shudder¹³²; and she wandered slowly round the nearer clumps¹³³ of trees until she saw him advancing. Then she went towards him, and might have represented a heaven-sent angel coming with a promise that the short hours remaining should yet be filled with that faithful love which clings the closer to a comprehended grief. His glance in reply to hers was so chill that she felt her timidity increased; yet she turned and passed her hand through his arm.

Mr. Casaubon kept his hands behind him and allowed her pliant arm to cling with difficulty against his rigid¹³⁴ arm.

There was something horrible to Dorothea in the sensation which this unresponsive hardness inflicted¹³⁵ on her. That is a strong word, but not too strong: it is in these acts called trivialities that the seeds of joy are forever wasted, until men and women look round with haggard faces at the devastation¹³⁶ their own waste has made, and say, the earth bears no harvest of sweetness—calling their denial knowledge. You may ask why, in the name of manliness¹³⁷, Mr. Casaubon should have behaved in that way. Consider that his was a mind which shrank from pity: have you ever watched in such a mind the effect of a suspicion that what is pressing it as a grief may be really a source of contentment, either actual or future, to the being who already offends by pitying? Besides, he knew little of Dorothea’s sensations, and had not reflected that on such an occasion as the present they were comparable in strength to his own sensibilities about Carp’s criticisms.

Dorothea did not withdraw her arm, but she could not venture to speak. Mr. Casaubon did not say, “I wish to be alone,” but he directed his steps in silence towards the house, and as they entered by the glass door on this eastern side, Dorothea withdrew her arm and lingered on the matting, that she might leave her husband quite free. He entered the library and shut himself in, alone with his sorrow.

She went up to her boudoir. The open bow-window let in the serene¹³⁸ glory of the afternoon lying in the avenue, where the lime-trees cast long shadows. But Dorothea knew nothing of the scene. She threw herself on a chair, not heeding¹³⁹ that she was in the dazzling sun-rays: if there were discomfort¹⁴⁰ in that, how could she tell that it was not part of her inward misery?

She was in the reaction of a rebellious anger stronger than any she had felt since her marriage. Instead of tears there came words:—

“What have I done—what am I—that he should treat me so? He never knows what is in my mind—he never cares. What is the use of anything I do? He wishes he had never married me.”

She began to hear herself, and was checked into stillness. Like one who has lost his way and is weary, she sat and saw as in one glance all the paths of her young hope which she should never find again. And just as clearly in the miserable¹⁴¹ light she saw her own and her husband’s solitude—how they walked apart so that she was obliged to survey him. If he had drawn¹⁴² her towards him, she would never have surveyed him—never have said, “Is he worth living for?” but would have felt him simply a part of her own life. Now she said bitterly, “It is his fault, not mine.” In the jar of her whole being, Pity was overthrown¹⁴³. Was it her fault that she had believed in him—had believed in his worthiness¹⁴⁴?—And what, exactly, was he?— She was able enough to estimate him—she who waited on his glances with trembling, and shut her best soul in prison, paying it only hidden visits, that she might be petty enough to please him. In such a crisis as this, some women begin to hate.

The sun was low when Dorothea was thinking that she would not go down again, but would send a message to her husband saying that she was not well and preferred remaining up-stairs. She had never deliberately¹⁴⁵ allowed her resentment to govern her in this way before, but she believed now that she could not see him again without telling him the truth about her feeling, and she must wait till she could do it without interruption. He might wonder and be hurt at her message. It was good that he should wonder and be hurt. Her anger said, as anger is apt to say, that God was with her—that all heaven, though it were crowded with spirits watching them, must be on her side. She had determined to ring her bell, when there came a rap at the door.

Mr. Casaubon had sent to say that he would have his dinner in the library. He wished to be quite alone this evening, being much occupied.

“I shall not dine, then, Tantripp.”

“Oh, madam, let me bring you a little something?”

“No; I am not well. Get everything ready in my dressing¹⁴⁶ room, but pray do not disturb me again.”

Dorothea sat almost motionless in her meditative¹⁴⁷ struggle, while the evening slowly deepened into night. But the struggle changed continually, as that of a man who begins with a movement towards striking and ends with conquering his desire to strike. The energy that would animate¹⁴⁸ a crime is not more than is wanted to inspire a resolved submission, when the noble habit of the soul reasserts itself. That thought with which Dorothea had gone out to meet her husband—her conviction that he had been asking about the possible arrest of all his work, and that the answer must have wrung¹⁴⁹ his heart, could not be long without rising beside the image of him, like a shadowy monitor looking at her anger with sad remonstrance¹⁵⁰. It cost her a litany of pictured sorrows and of silent cries that she might be the mercy for those sorrows—but the resolved submission did come; and when the house was still, and she knew that it was near the time when Mr. Casaubon habitually¹⁵¹ went to rest, she opened her door gently and stood outside in the darkness waiting for his coming up-stairs with a light in his hand. If he did not come soon she thought that she would go down and even risk incurring¹⁵² another pang¹⁵³. She would never again expect anything else. But she did hear the library door open, and slowly the light advanced up the staircase without noise from the footsteps on the carpet. When her husband stood opposite to her, she saw that his face was more haggard. He started slightly on seeing her, and she looked up at him beseechingly¹⁵⁴, without speaking.

“Dorothea!” he said, with a gentle surprise in his tone. “Were you waiting for me?”

“Yes, I did not like to disturb you.”

“Come, my dear, come. You are young, and need not to extend your life by watching.”

When the kind quiet melancholy of that speech fell on Dorothea’s ears, she felt something like the thankfulness that might well up in us if we had narrowly escaped hurting a lamed¹⁵⁵ creature. She put her hand into her husband’s, and they went along the broad corridor together.