Middlemarch. Джордж Элиот
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said Celia, ‘will you not have the bow-windowed room upstairs?’
Mr Casaubon led the way thither. The bow-window looked down the avenue of limes; the furniture was all of a faded blue, and there were miniatures of ladies and gentlemen with powdered hair hanging in a group. A piece of tapestry over a door also showed a blue-green world with a pale stag in it. The chairs and tables were thin-legged and easy to upset. It was a room where one might fancy the ghost of a tight-laced lady revisiting the scene of her embroidery. A light bookcase contained duodecimo volumes of polite literature in calf, completing the furniture.
‘Yes,’ said Mr Brooke, ‘this would be a pretty room with some new hangings, sofas, and that sort of thing. A little bare now.’
‘No, uncle,’ said Dorothea, eagerly. ‘Pray do not speak of altering anything. There are so many other things in the world that want altering—I like to take these things as they are. And you like them as they are, don’t you?’ she added, looking at Mr Casaubon. ‘Perhaps this was your mother’s room when she was young.’
‘It was,’ he said, with his slow bend of the head.
‘This is your mother,’ said Dorothea, who had turned to examine the group of miniatures. ‘It is like the tiny one you brought me; only, I should think a better portrait. And this one opposite, who is this?’
‘Her elder sister. They were, like you and your sister, the only two children of their parents, who hang above them, you see.’
‘The sister is pretty,’ said Celia, implying that she thought less favourably of Mr Casaubon’s mother. It was a new opening to Celia’s imagination, that he came of a family who had all been young in their time—the ladies wearing necklaces.
‘It is a peculiar face,’ said Dorothea, looking closely. ‘Those deep gray eyes rather near together—and the delicate irregular nose with a sort of ripple in it—and all the powdered curls hanging backward. Altogether it seems to me peculiar rather than pretty. There is not even a family likeness between her and your mother.’
‘No. And they were not alike in their lot.’
‘You did not mention her to me,’ said Dorothea.
‘My aunt made an unfortunate marriage. I never saw her.’
Dorothea wondered a little, but felt that it would be indelicate just then to ask for any information which Mr Casaubon did not proffer, and she turned to the window to admire the view. The sun had lately pierced the gray, and the avenue of limes cast shadows.
‘Shall we not walk in the garden now?’ said Dorothea.
‘And you would like to see the church, you know,’ said Mr Brooke. ‘It is a droll little church. And the village. It all lies in a nutshell. By the way, it will suit you, Dorothea; for the cottages are like a row of alms-houses—little gardens, gillyflowers, that sort of thing.’
‘Yes, please,’ said Dorothea, looking at Mr Casaubon, ‘I should like to see all that.’ She had got nothing from him more graphic about the Lowick cottages than that they were ‘not bad’.
They were soon on a gravel walk which led chiefly between grassy borders and clumps of trees, this being the nearest way to the church, Mr Casaubon said. At the little gate leading into the churchyard there was a pause while Mr Casaubon went to the parsonage close by to fetch a key. Celia, who had been hanging a little in the rear, came up presently, when she saw that Mr Casaubon was gone away, and said in her easy staccato, which always seemed to contradict the suspicion of any malicious intent—
‘Do you know, Dorothea, I saw some one quite young coming up one of the walks.’
‘Is that astonishing, Celia?’
‘There may be a young gardener, you know—why not?’ said Mr Brooke. ‘I told Casaubon he should change his gardener.’
‘No, not a gardener,’ said Celia; ‘a gentleman with a sketch book. He had light-brown curls. I only saw his back. But he was quite young.’
‘The curate’s son, perhaps,’ said Mr Brooke. ‘Ah, there is Casaubon again, and Tucker with him. He is going to introduce Tucker. You don’t know Tucker yet.’
Mr Tucker was the middle-aged curate, one of the ‘inferior clergy,’ who are usually not wanting in sons. But after the introduction, the conversation did not lead to any question about his family, and the startling apparition of youthfulness was forgotten by every one but Celia. She inwardly declined to believe that the light-brown curls and slim figure could have any relationship to Mr Tucker, who was just as old and musty-looking as she would have expected Mr Casaubon’s curate to be; doubtless an excellent man who would go to heaven (for Celia wished not to be unprincipled), but the corners of his mouth were so unpleasant. Celia thought with some dismalness of the time she should have to spend as bridesmaid at Lowick, where the curate had probably no pretty little children whom she could like, irrespective of principle.
Mr Tucker was invaluable in their walk; and perhaps Mr Casaubon had not been without foresight on this head, the curate being able to answer all Dorothea’s questions about the villagers and the other parishioners. Everybody, he assured her, was well off in Lowick: not a cottager in those double cottages at a low rent but kept a pig, and the strips of garden at the back were well tended. The small boys wore excellent corduroy, the girls went out as tidy servants, or did a little straw-plaiting at home: no looms here, no Dissent; and though the public disposition was rather towards laying by money than towards spirituality, there was not much vice. The speckled fowls were so numerous that Mr Brooke observed, ‘Your farmers leave some barley for the women to glean, I see. The poor folks here might have a fowl in their pot, as the good French king used to wish for all his people. The French eat a good many fowls—skinny fowls, you know.’
‘I think it was a very cheap wish of his,’ said Dorothea, indignantly. ‘Are kings such monsters that a wish like that must be reckoned a royal virtue?’
‘And if he wished them a skinny fowl,’ said Celia, ‘that would not be nice. But perhaps he wished them to have fat fowls.’
‘Yes, but the word has dropped out of the text, or perhaps was subauditum; that is, present in the king’s mind, but not uttered,’ said Mr Casaubon, smiling and bending his head towards Celia, who immediately dropped backward a little, because she could not bear Mr Casaubon to blink at her.
Dorothea sank into silence on the way back to the house. She felt some disappointment, of which she was yet ashamed, that there was nothing for her to do in Lowick; and in the next few minutes her mind had glanced over the possibility, which she would have preferred, of finding that her home would be in a parish which had a larger share of the world’s misery, so that she might have had more active duties in it. Then, recurring to the future actually before her, she made a picture of more complete devotion to Mr Casaubon’s aims, in which she would await new duties. Many such might reveal themselves to the higher knowledge gained by her in that companionship.
Mr Tucker soon left them, having some clerical work which would not allow him to lunch at the Hall; and as they were re-entering the garden through the little gate, Mr Casaubon said—
‘You seem a little sad, Dorothea. I trust you are pleased with what you have seen.’
‘I am feeling something which is perhaps foolish and wrong,’ answered Dorothea, with her usual openness—‘almost wishing that the people wanted more to be done for them here. I have known so few ways of making my life good for anything. Of course, my notions of usefulness must be narrow. I must learn new ways of helping people.’
‘Doubtless,’ said Mr Casaubon. ‘Each position has its corresponding duties. Yours, I trust, as the mistress of Lowick, will not leave any yearning unfulfilled.’
‘Indeed, I believe that,’ said Dorothea, earnestly. ‘Do not suppose that I am sad.’
‘That is well. But, if you are not tired, we will take another way to the house than that by which we came.’
Dorothea