3 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:
At dinner, Mr. Brooke recalls meeting the poet William Wordsworth. Dorothea feels awkward. Sir James explains that he is planning to experiment with technological innovations on his farm, but Mr. Brooke advises against this.

Transcript

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Happy listening.

Sir Humpty Davy,

Said Mr.

Brook over the soup in his easy smiling way,

Taking up Sir James Cheetham's remark that he was studying Davy's agricultural chemistry.

Well now,

Sir Humpty Davy,

I died with him years ago at Cartwright's and Wordsworth was there too,

The poet,

You know,

Now there was something singular.

I was at Cambridge when Wordsworth was there and I never met him,

And I died with him twenty years after at Cartwright's,

There's an oddity in things now.

But Davy was there,

He was a poet too,

Or as I may say,

Wordsworth was the poet one and Davy was poet two,

That was true in every sense,

You know.

Dorothea felt a little more uneasy than usual.

In the beginning of dinner,

The party being small and the room still,

These moots from the mass of a magistrate's mind fell too noticeably.

She wondered how a man like Mr.

Cassebonne would support such triviality.

His manners,

She thought,

Were very dignified,

The set of his iron grey hair and his deep eye sockets made him resemble the portrait of Locke.

He had the spare form and the pale complexion which became a student,

As different as possible from the blooming Englishman of the red-whiskered type represented by Sir James Chetham.

I'm reading the agricultural chemistry,

Said this excellent baronet,

Because I'm going to take one of the farms into my own hands and see if something cannot be done in setting a good pattern of farming among my tenants.

Do you approve of that,

Miss Brooke?

A great mistake,

Chetham,

Interposed Mr.

Brooke.

Going into electrifying your land and that kind of thing,

Making a pile of your cow house,

It won't do.

I went into science a great deal myself at one time,

But I saw it would not do.

It leads to everything.

You can let nothing alone.

No,

See,

Your tenants don't sell their straw and that kind of thing,

Give them draining tiles,

You know,

But your fancy farming will not do.

The most expensive sort of whistle you can buy.

You may as well keep a pack of hounds.

Surely,

Said Dorothea,

It is better to spend money in finding out how men can make most of the land which supports them all,

Than in keeping dogs and horses only to gallop over it.

It is not a sin to make yourself poor in performing experiments for the good of all.

Dorothea spoke with more energy than is expected of so young a lady.

But Sir James had appeal to her.

He was accustomed to do so,

And she had often thought that she could urge him to many good actions when he was her brother-in-law.

Mr.

Cassabon turned his eyes very markedly on Dorothea while she was speaking,

And seemed to observe her newly.

Young ladies don't understand political economy,

You know,

Said Mr.

Brooks,

Smiling towards Mr.

Cassabon.

I remember when we were all reading Adam Smith.

There is a book now.

I talk in all the new ideas at one time,

Human perfectibility now.

But some say history moves in circles,

And that may be very well argued.

I've argued it myself.

The fact is,

Human reason may carry you a little too far over the edge.

It would not do.

I pulled up in time,

But not too hard.

I've always been in favour of a little theory.

We must have thought,

Else we will be landed back in the Dark Ages.

But talking of books,

There is Southie's Peninsular War.

I'm reading that of a morning,

You know,

Southie?

No,

Said Mr.

Cassabon,

Not keeping pace with Mr.

Brooks in petulance reason,

And thinking of the book only.

I have little leisure for such literature just now.

I've been using up my eyesight on old characters lately.

The fact is,

I want a reader for my evenings.

But I'm fastidious in voices,

And I cannot endure listening to an imperfect reader.

It is a misfortune in some sense.

I feed too much on the inward sources.

I live too much with the dead.

My mind is something like the ghost of an ancient wandering about the world and trying mentally to construct it as it used to be.

In spite of ruin and confusing change.

But I find it necessary to use the utmost caution about my eyesight.

This was the first time Mr.

Cassabon had spoken at any length.

He delivered himself with precision,

As if he'd been called upon to make a public statement.

And the balanced,

Sing-song neatness of his speech,

Occasionally corresponded to by a was the more conspicuous from its contrast with good Mr.

Brook's scrappy slovenliness.

Dorothea said to herself,

Mr.

Cassabon was the most interesting man she'd ever seen.

Not accepting even Monsieur Lorette,

The vaudois clergyman who'd given conferences on the history of the Waldenses.

To reconstruct a past world,

Doubtless with a view to the highest purposes of truth,

What a work to be in any way present at,

To assist in,

Though only as a lampholder.

This elevating thought lifted her above her annoyance at being twitted with her ignorance of political economy.

That never explained science,

Which was thrust as an extinguisher over all her lights.

But you are fond of riding,

Miss Brook,

Sir James presently took an opportunity of saying.

I should have thought you would enter a little into the pleasures of hunting.

I wish you would let me send over a chestnut horse for you to try.

It has been trained for a lady.

I saw you on Saturday cantering over the hill on a nag not worthy of you.

My groom shall bring Corridan for you every day,

If you will only mention the tie.

Thank you,

You are very good.

I mean to give up riding.

I shall not ride anymore,

Said Dorothea,

Urged to this brusque resolution by a little annoyance that Sir James would be soliciting her attention and she wanted to give it all to Mr.

Cassible.

No,

That is too hard,

Said Sir James in a tone of reproach that showed strong interest.

Your sister is given to self-mortification,

Is she not?

He continued,

Turning to Celia,

Who sat at his right hand.

I think she is,

Said Celia,

Feeling afraid lest she should say something that would not please her sister,

And blushing as prettily as possible above her necklace.

She likes giving up.

If that were true,

Celia,

My giving up would be self-indulgence,

Not self-mortification.

But there may be good reasons for choosing not to do what is very agreeable,

Said Dorothea.

Mr.

Brooke was speaking at the same time,

But it was evident that Mr.

Cassible was observing Dorothea and she was aware of it.

Exactly,

Said Sir James,

You give up from some high,

Generous motive.

No,

Indeed,

Not exactly.

I did not say that of myself,

Answered Dorothea,

Reddening.

Unlike Celia,

She rarely blushed and only from high delight or anger.

At this moment she felt angry with the perverse Sir James.

Why did he not pay attention to Celia and leave her to listen to Mr.

Cassible?

If that learned man would only talk,

Instead of allowing himself to be talked to by Mr.

Brooke,

Who was just then informing him the Reformation either meant something or it did not,

That he himself was a Protestant to the core,

But that Catholicism was a fact,

And as to refusing an acre of your ground for a Romantis chapel,

All men needed the bridle of religion,

Which,

Properly speaking,

Was the dread of a hereafter.

I made a great study of theology at one time,

Said Mr.

Brooke,

As if to explain the insight just manifested.

I know something of all schools.

I knew Wilberforce in his best days.

Do you know Wilberforce?

Mr.

Cassible said no.

Well,

Wilberforce was perhaps not enough of a thinker,

But if I went into Parliament,

As I've been asked to do,

I should sit on the independent bench,

As Wilberforce did,

And work at philanthropy.

Mr.

Cassible bowed and observed it was a wide field.

Yes,

Said Mr.

Brooke with an easy smile,

But I have documents.

I began a long time ago to collect documents.

They weren't arranging,

But when a question struck me,

I had written to somebody and got an answer.

I have documents at my back.

But now,

How do you arrange your documents?

Pigeonholes partly,

Said Miss Cassible,

With rather a startle there of effort.

Pigeonholes will not do.

I have tried pigeonholes,

But everything gets mixed in pigeonholes.

I never know whether a paper is in A or Z.

I wish you'd let me sort your papers for you,

Uncle,

Said Dorothea.

I'd letter them all and then make a list of subjects under each letter.

Mr.

Cassible bravely smiled approval and said to Mr.

Brooke,

You have an excellent secretary at hand,

You perceive.

No,

No,

Said Mr.

Brooke,

Shaking his head.

I cannot let young ladies meddle with my documents.

Young ladies are too flighty.

Dorothea felt hurt.

Mr.

Cassible would think her uncle had some special reason for delivering his opinion,

Whereas the remark lay in his mind as lightly as the broken wing of an insect,

Among all the other fragments there,

And a chance current set it alighting on her.

When the two girls were in the drawing room alone,

Celia said,

How very ugly Mr.

Cassible is.

Celia?

He's one of the most distinguished looking men I ever saw,

Protested Dorothea.

He is remarkably like the portrait of Locke.

He has the same deep eye sockets.

Had Locke those two white moles with hairs on them?

Oh,

I dare say,

When people of a certain sort looked at him,

Said Dorothea,

Walking away a little,

Mr.

Cassible is so sallow.

All the better,

I suppose you admire a man with the complexion of a cochon de lait.

Dodo!

Exclaimed Celia,

Looking up after her in surprise.

I never heard you make such a comparison before.

Why should I make it before the occasion came?

It's a good comparison.

The match is perfect.

Miss Brooke was clearly forgetting herself,

And Celia thought so.

I wonder you show your temper,

Dorothea.

It is so painful in you,

Celia,

That you will look at human beings as if they were merely animals with a toilette,

And never see the great soul in a man's face.

Has Mr.

Cassible a great soul?

Celia was not without a touch of naive malice.

Yes,

Said Dorothea,

With a full voice of decision.

Yes,

I believe he has.

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