14 Middlemarch - Read By Stephanie Poppins

Middlemarch by George Eliot explores the lives of its inhabitants as they navigate societal expectations, personal aspirations, and the changing world around them. The story centres on Dorothea Brooke, a young, idealistic woman who marries an older scholar.

In this episode, Mr Casaubon's house leaves much to be desired.

Transcript

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Happy listening.

Chapter 9 Mr.

Casabon's behaviour about settlements was highly satisfactory to Mr.

Brooke and the preliminaries of marriage rolled smoothly along shortening the weeks of courtship.

The betrothed bride must see her future home and dictate any changes she would like to have made there.

A woman dictates before marriage in order that she may have an appetite for submission afterwards and certainly the mistakes we male and female mortals make when we have our own way might fairly raise some wonder that we are so fond of it.

On a grey but dry November morning,

Dorothea drove to Lowick in company with her uncle and Celia.

Mr.

Casabon's home was the manor house.

Close by,

Visible from some parts of the garden,

Was the little church with the old parsonage opposite.

In the beginning of his career,

Mr.

Casabon only held the living but the death of his brother had put him in possession of the manor also.

It had a small park with a fine old oak here and there and an avenue of limes towards the southwest front,

With a sunk fence between park and pleasure ground so that from the drawing room windows,

The glads swept uninterruptedly along a slope of greenswood till the limes ended in a level of corn and pastures which often seemed to melt into a lake under the setting sun.

This was the happy side of the house,

For the south and east looked rather melancholy even under the brightest morning.

The grounds here were more confined,

The flower beds showed no very careful tendance,

And large clumps of trees,

Chiefly of sombre hues,

Had risen high not ten yards from the windows.

The building of greenish stone was in the old English style,

Not ugly but small-windowed and melancholy looking,

The sort of house that must have children,

Many flowers,

Open windows and little vistas of bright things,

To make it seem a joyous home.

In this latter end of autumn,

With a sparse remnant of yellow leaves falling slowly athwart to the dark evergreens in a stillness without sunshine,

The house too had an air of autumnal decline,

And Mr Cassavon,

When he presented himself,

Had no bloom that could be thrown into relief by that background.

Oh dear,

Celia said to herself,

I'm sure Freshet Hall would have been pleasanter than this.

She thought of the white freestone,

The pillared portico,

And the terrace full of flowers,

Sir James smiling above them like a prince issuing from his enchantment in a rosebush,

With a handkerchief swiftly metamorphosed from the most delicately odorous petals.

Sir James,

Who talked so agreeably,

Always about things which had common sense in them and not about learning.

Celia had those light,

Young,

Feminine tastes which grave and weather-worn gentlemen sometimes prefer in a wife,

But happily Mr Cassavon's bias had been different,

For he would have had no chance with Celia.

Dorothea,

On the contrary,

Found the house and grounds all she could wish.

The dark bookshelves in the long library,

The carpets and curtains with colours subdued by time,

The curious old maps and bird's-eye views on the walls of the corridor,

With here and there an old vase below,

Had no impression for her,

And seemed more cheerful than the casts and pictures at the Grange,

Which her uncle had long ago brought home from his travels,

They being probably among the ideas he'd taken in at one time.

To poor Dorothea,

These severe classical nudities and smirking Renaissance courageosities were painfully inexplicable,

Staring into the midst of her Puritanic conceptions.

She had never been taught how she could bring them into any sort of relevance with her life.

But the owners of Lowick apparently had not been travellers,

And Mr Cassavon's studies of the past were not carried on by means of such aids.

Dorothea walked about the house with delightful emotion.

Everything seemed hallowed to her.

This was to be the home of her wifehood,

And she looked up with eyes full of confidence to Mr Cassavon when he drew her attention specially to some actual arrangement,

And asked her if she would like an alteration.

All appeals to her taste she met gratefully,

But saw nothing to alter.

His efforts at exact courtesy and formal tenderness had no defect for her.

She filled up all blanks with unmanifested perfections,

Interpreting him as she interpreted the works of Providence,

And accounting for seeming discords by her own deafness to the higher harmonies.

And there are many blanks left in the weeks of courtship,

Which a loving faith fills with happy assurance.

Now,

My dear Dorothea,

I wish you to favour me by pointing out which room you would like to have as your boudoir,

Said Mr Cassavon,

Showing his views of the womanly nature were sufficiently large to include that requirement.

It's very kind of you to think of that,

Said Dorothea,

But I assure you I'd rather have all those matters decided for me.

I shall be much happier to take everything as it is,

Just as you've been used to have it,

Or as you yourself would choose it to be.

I have no motive for wishing anything else.

Oh,

Toto,

Said Celia,

Will you not have the bow-windowed room upstairs?

Mr Cassavon 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 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.

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 Cassavon.

Perhaps this was your mother's room when she was young.

It was,

He said,

With a slow bend of the head.

This is your mother,

Said Dorothea,

Who turned to examine the group of miniatures.

It's like the tiny one you brought me.

Only I should think it's 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.

The sister is pretty,

Said Celia,

Implying she thought less favourably of Mr Cassavon'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,

Those deep grey eyes rather near together and the delicate irregular nose with the sort of ripple in it and all the powder of curls hanging backward.

Together it seems to me peculiar rather than pretty.

There was 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 it would be indelicate just then to ask for any information which Mr Cassavon did not proffer and she turned to the window to admire the view.

The sun had lately pierced the grey 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's a droll little church and the village all lies in a nutshell.

By the way,

It will suit you,

Dorothea,

For the cottages are like a row of almshouses.

Little gardens with flowers,

That sort of thing.

Yes,

Please,

Said Dorothea,

Looking at Mr Cassavon.

I should like to see all that.

She had got nothing from him more graphic about the lowered cottages than that they were not bad.

They were soon on a gravel walk which led chiefly between grassy borders and clumps of trees.

At the little gate leading into the churchyard there was a pause while Mr Cassavon 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 Mr Cassavon was gone away and said in her easy staccato.

Do you know,

Dorothea,

I saw someone quite young coming out of one of the walks.

Is that astonishing,

Celia?

There may be a young gardener you know,

Why not,

Said Mr Brooke.

I told Cassavon he should change his gardener.

No,

Not a gardener,

Said Celia,

A gentleman with a sketchbook.

He had light brown curls.

I only saw his back,

But he was quite young.

The curate's son,

Perhaps,

Said Mr Brooke.

Ah,

Here's Cassavon again,

And Tucker with him.

He's going to introduce you.

You don't know Tucker yet.

Mr Tucker was the middle-aged curate,

One of the inferior clergy,

Who were usually not wanting in sons.

But after the introduction the conversation did not lead to any questions about his family and the startling apparition of youthfulness was forgotten by everyone but Celia.

She inwardly declined to believe that the light brown curls and slim figure could have any relationship to Mr Tucker.

He was just as old and musty looking as she would have expected Mr Cassavon's curate to be.

Doubtless an excellent man who would go to heaven,

But the coolness of his mouth was 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 Cassavon had not been without foresight on this head,

The curate being able to answer all Dorothea's questions about the villagers.

Everybody,

He assured her,

Was well off.

The small boys wore excellent corduroy,

The girls went out as tidy servants.

No looms here,

No descent,

And though the public disposition was rather towards laying by money than towards spirituality,

There was really not much vice.

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 Cassavon 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,

She answered,

With her usual openness.

I almost wish 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 Cassavon,

Each position has its corresponding duties.

Yours,

I trust,

As the mistress of Lowick,

Will not leave any yearning unfulfilled.

A little circuit was made towards a fine new tree,

The chief hereditary glory of the grounds on this side of the house.

As they approached it,

A figure,

Conspicuous on a dark background of evergreens,

Was seated on a bench,

Sketching the old tree.

Mr Brook,

Who was walking in front,

Turned his head and said,

Who is this youngster,

Cassavon?

They had come very near when Mr Cassavon answered,

It is a young relative of mine,

A second cousin,

The grandson in fact,

Of the lady whose portrait you have been noticing.

Dorothea,

Let me introduce you to my cousin,

Mr Ladislaw.

Will,

This is Miss Brook.