8 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 makes his move.

Transcript

Welcome to Sleep Stories with Steph, Your go-to podcast that offers you a calm and relaxing transition into a great night's sleep. It is time to relax and fully let go. There is nothing you need to be doing now, And nowhere you need to go. Close your eyes and feel yourself sink into the support beneath you and let all the worries of the day drift away. This is your time and your space. Take a deep breath in through your nose and let it out with a long sigh. There is nothing you need to be doing now, And nowhere you need to go. Happy listening. Chapter 4 Continued No one could have detected any anxiety in Mr. Brooks' manner, But he did really wish to know something of his niece's mind that, If there were any need for advice, He might give it in time. What feeling he, As a magistrate who'd taken in so many ideas, Could make room for was unmixedly kind. Since Dorothea did not speak immediately, He repeated, I thought it better to tell you, My dear. Mr. Cassabon has asked my permission to make you an offer of marriage, You know. Thank you, Uncle, Said Dorothea in a clear, Unwavering tone. I am very grateful to Mr. Cassabon. If he makes me an offer, I shall accept. I admire and honour him more than any man I ever saw. Mr. Brooks paused a little and then said in a lingering low tone, Ah, Well, He is a good match in some respects, But now Chetum's a good match, And our land lies together. I shall never interfere against your wishes, My dear. People should have made their own way in marriage and that sort of thing, Up to a certain point, You know. I have always said that, Up to a certain point. I wish you to marry well, And I have good reason to believe Chetum wishes to marry you and I mention it, You know. It is impossible I should ever marry Sir James Chetum, Said Dorothea. If he thinks of marrying me, He has made a great mistake. That is it, You see. One never knows. I should have thought Chetum was just the sort of man a woman would like now. Pray do not mention him in that light again, Uncle, Said Dorothea, Feeling some of her late irritation revive. Mr Brooke wondered, And felt that women were an inexhaustible subject of study, Since even he at his age was not in a perfect state of scientific prediction about them at all. He was a fellow like Chetum, With no chance. Well, But Casabon now, He continued, There's no hurry, I mean for you. It's true, Every year will tell upon him. He's over five-and-forty, You know. I should say a good seven-and-twenty years older than you. To be sure, If you like learning and standing and that sort of thing, We can't have everything. And his income is good, He has a handsome property independent of the church, His income is good. Still, He's not young, And I must not conceal from you, My dear, I think his health is not over-strong. I know nothing else against him. I should not wish to have a husband very near my own age, Said Dorothea with grave decision. I should wish to have a husband who was above me in judgment and in all knowledge. Mr Brooke repeated his subdued, Ah, I thought you'd more of your own opinion than that of most girls. I thought you liked your own opinion, Liked it, You know. I cannot imagine myself living without some opinions, But I should wish to have a good reason for them, And a wise man could help me to see which opinions had the best foundation and would help me to live according to them. Very true, You couldn't put the thing better, Couldn't put it better, Beforehand, You know. But there are oddities in things, Continued Mr Brooke, Whose conscience was really roused to do the best he could for his niece on this occasion. Life isn't cast in a mould, Not cut out by rule and line and that sort of thing. I never married myself, And it'll be the better for you and yours. The fact is, I never loved anyone well enough to put myself into a noose for them. It is a noose, You know, Temper now, There is temper, And a husband likes to be master. I know I must expect trials, Uncle. Marriage is a state of higher duties. I never thought of it as mere personal ease, Said Paul Dorothea. Well, You are not fond of a show. A great establishment balls dinners, That kind of thing. I can see that Cassabon's ways might suit you better than Chetham's. And you shall do as you like, My dear. I would not hinder Cassabon. I said so at once, For there's no knowing how anything might turn out. You've not the same taste as every young lady, Have you? A clergyman and a scholar, Who may well be a bishop, That kind of thing, May suit you better than Chetham. Chetham is a good fellow, A good sound-hearted fellow, You know, But he doesn't go much into ideas. I did when I was his age, But Cassabon's eyes, Now, I think he's hurt them a little with too much reading. I should be all the happier, Uncle, The more room there was for me to help him. Dorothea spoke ardently, And Mr. Brook could see she had quite made up her mind. Well, My dear, The fact is, I've a letter for you in my pocket. Mr. Brook handed the letter to Dorothea, But as she rose to go away, He added, There's not too much hurry now, My dear. Think about it, You know. When Dorothea had left him, He reflected he had certainly spoken strongly. He had put the risks of marriage before her in striking manner. It was his duty to do so. But as to pretending to be wise for young people, No uncle, However much he'd travelled in his youth, Absorbed the new ideas, And dined with celebrities now deceased, Could pretend to judge what sort of marriage would turn out well for a young girl who preferred Cassabon to Chetham. In short, Woman was a problem which, Since Mr. Brook's mind fell blank before it, Could hardly be less complicated than the revolutions of an irregular solid. This was Mr. Cassabon's letter. My dear Miss Brook, I have your guardian's permission to address you on a subject than which I have none more at heart. I am not, I trust, Mistaken in the recognition of some deep correspondence than that of date in the fact that a consciousness of need in my own life had arisen contemporaneously with the possibility of my becoming acquainted with you. For in the first hour of meeting you, I had an impression of your eminent and perhaps exclusive fitness to supply that need, Connected, I may say, With such activity of the affections as even the preoccupations of a work too special to be abdicated could not uninterruptedly dissimulate, And each succeeding opportunity for observation has given the impression an added depth by convincing me more emphatically of that fitness which I had preconceived and thus evoking more decisively those affections to which I have but now referred. Our conversations have, I think, Made sufficiently clear to you the tenor of my life and purposes, A tenor unsuited, I am aware, To the commoner order of minds. But I have discerned in you an elevation of thought and a capability of devotedness which I had hitherto not conceived to be compatible either with the early bloom of youth or with those graces of sex that may be set at once to win and confer distinction when combined, As they notably are in you with the mental qualities above indicated. It was, I confess, Beyond my hope to meet with this rare combination of elements both solid and attractive, Adapted to supply aid in graver labours and to cast a charm over vacant hours, And but for the event of my introduction to you I should presumably have gone on to the last without any attempt to lighten my solitariness by a matrimonial union. Such, My dear Miss Brooke, Is the accurate statement of my feelings. I rely on your kind indulgence in venturing now to ask how far your own are of a nature to confirm my happy presentiment. To be accepted by you as your husband and the earthly guardian of your welfare I should regard as the highest of providential gifts. In return I can at least offer you an affection hitherto unwasted and the faithful consecration of a life which, However short in the sequel, Has no backward pages whereon, If you choose to turn them, You will find records as such might justly cause you either bitterness or shame. I await the expression of your sentiments with an anxiety which it would be the part of wisdom, Were it possible, To divert by a more arduous labour than usual. But in this order of experience I am still young and in looking forward to an unfavourable possibility I cannot but feel that resignation to solitude will be more difficult after the temporary illumination of hope. In any case, I shall remain yours with sincere devotion, Edward Cassable. Reading this, Dorothea trembled, Then she fell on her knees, She buried her face and she sobbed, Remaining in that attitude till it was time to dress for dinner. Now she would be able to devote herself to large yet definite duties, Now she would be allowed to live continually in the light of a mind that she could reverence. This hope was not unmixed with a glow of proud delight, The joyous maiden surprise that she was chosen by the man whom her admiration had chosen. The radiance of her transfigured girlhood fell on the first object that came within its level. The impetus with which inclination became resolution was heightened by those little events of the day which had roused her discontent with the actual conditions of her life. And so she replied, Piquing herself on writing a hand in which each letter was distinguishable without any large range of conjecture, To save Mr Cassable's eyes. My dear Mr Cassable, I am very grateful to you for loving me and thinking me worthy to be your wife. I can look forward to no better happiness than that which would be one with yours. If I had said more, It would only be the same thing written out at great length, For I cannot now dwell on any other thought than that I may be through life yours devotedly. Dorothea Brooke