Chapter: "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 Manor, in consequence 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 labors 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 surmised or known in spite of
himself was embittering, the idea of calling forth a show of compassion
by frankly 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 isolation seem mean and petty instead of
exalting.

But Mr. Casaubon was now brooding over something through which the
question of his health and life haunted his silence with a more
harassing importunity even than through the autumnal unripeness 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 streaks
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
morbid consciousness that others did not give him the place which he
had not demonstrably merited--a perpetual suspicious conjecture that
the views entertained of him were not to his advantage--a melancholy
absence of passion in his efforts at achievement, and a passionate
resistance to the confession 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 defiant stay in the neighborhood of Lowick, and his
flippant state of mind with regard to the possessors of authentic,
well-stamped erudition: against Dorothea's nature, always taking on
some new shape of ardent activity, and even in submission and silence
covering fervid reasons which it was an irritation 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 virtuous 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 solicitous
about his feelings; but there had entered into the husband's mind the
certainty that she judged him, and that her wifely devotedness was like
a penitential expiation of unbelieving thoughts--was accompanied with a
power of comparison by which himself and his doings were seen too
luminously as a part of things in general.  His discontent passed
vapor-like through all her gentle loving manifestations, 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 resentment had made an impression which no
tenderness and submission afterwards could remove.  To his suspicious
interpretation 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 acquiesced it was a
self-approved effort of forbearance.  The tenacity 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 misery in Mr. Casaubon, I think
it quite ordinary.  Will not a tiny speck very close to our vision blot
out the glory of the world, and leave only a margin by which we see the
blot?  I know no speck so troublesome as self.  And who, if Mr.
Casaubon had chosen to expound 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 explicitly 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 soothing it would have been to have a
companion who would never find it out.

This sore susceptibility in relation to Dorothea was thoroughly
prepared before Will Ladislaw had returned to Lowick, and what had
occurred since then had brought Mr. Casaubon's power of suspicious
construction into exasperated 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 jealousy 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 elevation 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 judgments, 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 allege against him, he felt himself warranted in believing
that he was capable of any design which could fascinate a rebellious
temper and an undisciplined impulsiveness.  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 penetrating
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 pliant to his suggestions: they had never had a tete-a-tete
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 odious 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 mere fatigue, and
there might still be twenty years of achievement before him, which
would justify the thirty years of preparation.  That prospect was made
the sweeter by a flavor of vengeance against the hasty sneers of Carp &
Company; for even when Mr. Casaubon was carrying his taper among the
tombs of the past, those modern figures came athwart the dim light, and
interrupted his diligent 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 triumphant authorship,
which the prospect of living to future ages on earth and to all
eternity in heaven could not exclude from contemplation.  Since, thus,
the prevision of his own unending bliss could not nullify the bitter
savors of irritated jealousy and vindictiveness, 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
potently 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 annoyance 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-being 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 prey to any man who knows
how to play adroitly either on her affectionate ardor 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 ingratitude, and which he has
constantly vented in ridicule 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 calamity for
her and success for him.  _She_ would not think it calamity: he would
make her believe anything; she has a tendency to immoderate attachment
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 vagaries.  When was sciolism ever dissociated from
laxity?  I utterly 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 ruminating on them his mind inevitably
dwelt so much on the probabilities of his own life that the longing to
get the nearest possible calculation had at last overcome his proud
reticence, and had determined 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 habitual 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
receding with his hands behind him according to his habit, and his head
bent forward.  It was a lovely afternoon; the leaves from the lofty
limes were falling silently across the sombre evergreens, 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 dirge.  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 premature age--the student's bent
shoulders, the emaciated 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 collateral accounts insignificant, derives 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
circumscription 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.
Nay, are there many situations more sublimely tragic than the struggle
of the soul with the demand to renounce 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 sublime about Mr. Casaubon, and Lydgate,
who had some contempt at hand for futile scholarship, felt a little
amusement mingling with his pity.  He was at present too ill acquainted
with disaster to enter into the pathos of a lot where everything is
below the level of tragedy except the passionate egoism of the sufferer.

"You refer to the possible hindrances from want of health?" he said,
wishing to help forward Mr. Casaubon's purpose, which seemed to be
clogged by some hesitation.

"I do.  You have not implied to me that the symptoms which--I am bound
to testify--you watched with scrupulous 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 eminently difficult to found predictions on.
In any case, one can hardly increase appreciably the tremendous
uncertainty of life."

Mr. Casaubon winced 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 lengthened
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
precisely 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," proceeding 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 isles 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 delirious 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
oar, not discerning the forms, but expecting the summons.  In such an
hour the mind does not change its lifelong bias, but carries it onward
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 Christian, 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 immediate desire: the future estate for which
men drudge up city alleys exists already in their imagination and love.
And Mr. Casaubon's immediate desire was not for divine communion and
light divested of earthly conditions; his passionate longings, 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 obtruding herself; for her
ardor, continually repulsed, served, with her intense memory, to
heighten her dread, as thwarted energy subsides into a shudder; and she
wandered slowly round the nearer clumps 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 rigid arm.

There was something horrible to Dorothea in the sensation which this
unresponsive hardness inflicted 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 devastation 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 manliness, 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 serene
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 heeding that she was in the dazzling sun-rays:
if there were discomfort 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 miserable 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 drawn 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
overthrown.  Was it her fault that she had believed in him--had
believed in his worthiness?--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 deliberately
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 dressing room, but pray
do not disturb me again."

Dorothea sat almost motionless in her meditative 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 animate 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 wrung his heart, could not be long
without rising beside the image of him, like a shadowy monitor looking
at her anger with sad remonstrance.  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
habitually 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 incurring another pang.  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 beseechingly, 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 lamed creature.  She put her hand into
her husband's, and they went along the broad corridor together.





BOOK V.





THE DEAD HAND.



    This figure hath high price: 't was wrought with love
    Ages ago in finest ivory;
    Nought modish in it, pure and noble lines
    Of generous womanhood that fits all time
    That too is costly ware; majolica
    Of deft design, to please a lordly eye:
    The smile, you see, is perfect--wonderful
    As mere Faience! a table ornament
    To suit the richest mounting."


Dorothea seldom left home without her husband, but she did occasionally
drive into Middlemarch alone, on little errands of shopping or charity
such as occur to every lady of any wealth when she lives within three
miles of a town.  Two days after that scene in the Yew-tree Walk, she
determined to use such an opportunity in order if possible to see
Lydgate, and learn from him whether her husband had really felt any
depressing change of symptoms which he was concealing from her, and
whether he had insisted on knowing the utmost about himself.  She felt
almost guilty in asking for knowledge about him from another, but the
dread of being without it--the dread of that ignorance which would make
her unjust or hard--overcame every scruple.  That there had been some
crisis in her husband's mind she was certain: he had the very next day
begun a new method of arranging his notes, and had associated her quite
newly in carrying out his plan.  Poor Dorothea needed to lay up stores
of patience.

It was about four o'clock when she drove to Lydgate's house in Lowick
Gate, wishing, in her immediate doubt of finding him at home, that she
had written beforehand.  And he was not at home.

"Is Mrs. Lydgate at home?" said Dorothea, who had never, that she knew
of, seen Rosamond, but now remembered the fact of the marriage.  Yes,
Mrs. Lydgate was at home.

"I will go in and speak to her, if she will allow me.  Will you ask her
if she can see me--see Mrs. Casaubon, for a few minutes?"

When the servant had gone to deliver that message, Dorothea could hear
sounds of music through an open window--a few notes from a man's voice
and then a piano bursting into roulades.  But the roulades broke off
suddenly, and then the servant came back saying that Mrs. Lydgate would
be happy to see Mrs. Casaubon.

When the drawing-room door opened and Dorothea entered, there was a
sort of contrast not infrequent in country life when the habits of the
different ranks were less blent than now.  Let those who know, tell us
exactly what stuff it was that Dorothea wore in those days of mild
autumn--that thin white woollen stuff soft to the touch and soft to the
eye.  It always seemed to have been lately washed, and to smell of the
sweet hedges--was always in the shape of a pelisse with sleeves hanging
all out of the fashion.  Yet if she had entered before a still audience
as Imogene or Cato's daughter, the dress might have seemed right
enough: the grace and dignity were in her limbs and neck; and about her
simply parted hair and candid eyes the large round poke which was then
in the fate of women, seemed no more odd as a head-dress than the gold
trencher we call a halo.  By the present audience of two persons, no
dramatic heroine could have been expected with more interest than Mrs.
Casaubon.  To Rosamond she was one of those county divinities not
mixing with Middlemarch mortality, whose slightest marks of manner or
appearance were worthy of her study; moreover, Rosamond was not without
satisfaction that Mrs. Casaubon should have an opportunity of studying
_her_. What is the use of being exquisite if you are not seen by the
best judges? and since Rosamond had received the highest compliments at
Sir Godwin Lydgate's, she felt quite confident of the impression she
must make on people of good birth.  Dorothea put out her hand with her
usual simple kindness, and looked admiringly at Lydgate's lovely
bride--aware that there was a gentleman standing at a distance, but
seeing him merely as a coated figure at a wide angle.  The gentleman
was too much occupied with the presence of the one woman to reflect on
the contrast between the two--a contrast that would certainly have been
striking to a calm observer.  They were both tall, and their eyes were
on a level; but imagine Rosamond's infantine blondness and wondrous
crown of hair-plaits, with her pale-blue dress of a fit and fashion so
perfect that no dressmaker could look at it without emotion, a large
embroidered collar which it was to be hoped all beholders would know
the price of, her small hands duly set off with rings, and that
controlled self-consciousness of manner which is the expensive
substitute for simplicity.

"Thank you very much for allowing me to interrupt you," said Dorothea,
immediately.  "I am anxious to see Mr. Lydgate, if possible, before I
go home, and I hoped that you might possibly tell me where I could find
him, or even allow me to wait for him, if you expect him soon."

"He is at the New Hospital," said Rosamond; "I am not sure how soon he
will come home.  But I can send for him."

"Will you let me go and fetch him?" said Will Ladislaw, coming forward.
He had already taken up his hat before Dorothea entered.  She colored
with surprise, but put out her hand with a smile of unmistakable
pleasure, saying--

"I did not know it was you: I had no thought of seeing you here."

"May I go to the Hospital and tell Mr. Lydgate that you wish to see
him?" said Will.

"It would be quicker to send the carriage for him," said Dorothea, "if
you will be kind enough to give the message to the coachman."

Will was moving to the door when Dorothea, whose mind had flashed in an
instant over many connected memories, turned quickly and said, "I will
go myself, thank you.  I wish to lose no time before getting home
again.  I will drive to the Hospital and see Mr. Lydgate there.  Pray
excuse me, Mrs. Lydgate.  I am very much obliged to you."

Her mind was evidently arrested by some sudden thought, and she left
the room hardly conscious of what was immediately around her--hardly
conscious that Will opened the door for her and offered her his arm to
lead her to the carriage.  She took the arm but said nothing.  Will was
feeling rather vexed and miserable, and found nothing to say on his
side.  He handed her into the carriage in silence, they said good-by,
and Dorothea drove away.

In the five minutes' drive to the Hospital she had time for some
reflections that were quite new to her.  Her decision to go, and her
preoccupation in leaving the room, had come from the sudden sense that
there would be a sort of deception in her voluntarily allowing any
further intercourse between herself and Will which she was unable to
mention to her husband, and already her errand in seeking Lydgate was a
matter of concealment.  That was all that had been explicitly in her
mind; but she had been urged also by a vague discomfort.  Now that she
was alone in her drive, she heard the notes of the man's voice and the
accompanying piano, which she had not noted much at the time, returning
on her inward sense; and she found herself thinking with some wonder
that Will Ladislaw was passing his time with Mrs. Lydgate in her
husband's absence.  And then she could not help remembering that he had
passed some time with her under like circumstances, so why should there
be any unfitness in the fact?  But Will was Mr. Casaubon's relative,
and one towards whom she was bound to show kindness.  Still there had
been signs which perhaps she ought to have understood as implying that
Mr. Casaubon did not like his cousin's visits during his own absence.
"Perhaps I have been mistaken in many things," said poor Dorothea to
herself, while the tears came rolling and she had to dry them quickly.
She felt confusedly unhappy, and the image of Will which had been so
clear to her before was mysteriously spoiled.  But the carriage stopped
at the gate of the Hospital.  She was soon walking round the grass
plots with Lydgate, and her feelings recovered the strong bent which
had made her seek for this interview.

Will Ladislaw, meanwhile, was mortified, and knew the reason of it
clearly enough.  His chances of meeting Dorothea were rare; and here
for the first time there had come a chance which had set him at a
disadvantage.  It was not only, as it had been hitherto, that she was
not supremely occupied with him, but that she had seen him under
circumstances in which he might appear not to be supremely occupied
with her.  He felt thrust to a new distance from her, amongst the
circles of Middlemarchers who made no part of her life.  But that was
not his fault: of course, since he had taken his lodgings in the town,
he had been making as many acquaintances as he could, his position
requiring that he should know everybody and everything.  Lydgate was
really better worth knowing than any one else in the neighborhood, and
he happened to have a wife who was musical and altogether worth calling
upon.  Here was the whole history of the situation in which Diana had
descended too unexpectedly on her worshipper.  It was mortifying.  Will
was conscious that he should not have been at Middlemarch but for
Dorothea; and yet his position there was threatening to divide him from
her with those barriers of habitual sentiment which are more fatal to
the persistence of mutual interest than all the distance between Rome
and Britain.  Prejudices about rank and status were easy enough to defy
in the form of a tyrannical letter from Mr. Casaubon; but prejudices,
like odorous bodies, have a double existence both solid and subtle--solid
as the pyramids, subtle as the twentieth echo of an echo, or as
the memory of hyacinths which once scented the darkness.  And Will was
of a temperament to feel keenly the presence of subtleties: a man of
clumsier perceptions would not have felt, as he did, that for the first
time some sense of unfitness in perfect freedom with him had sprung up
in Dorothea's mind, and that their silence, as he conducted her to the
carriage, had had a chill in it.  Perhaps Casaubon, in his hatred and
jealousy, had been insisting to Dorothea that Will had slid below her
socially.  Confound Casaubon!

Will re-entered the drawing-room, took up his hat, and looking
irritated as he advanced towards Mrs. Lydgate, who had seated herself
at her work-table, said--

"It is always fatal to have music or poetry interrupted.  May I come
another day and just finish about the rendering of 'Lungi dal caro
bene'?"

"I shall be happy to be taught," said Rosamond.  "But I am sure you
admit that the interruption was a very beautiful one.  I quite envy
your acquaintance with Mrs. Casaubon.  Is she very clever?  She looks
as if she were."

"Really, I never thought about it," said Will, sulkily.

"That is just the answer Tertius gave me, when I first asked him if she
were handsome.  What is it that you gentlemen are thinking of when you
are with Mrs. Casaubon?"

"Herself," said Will, not indisposed to provoke the charming Mrs.
Lydgate.  "When one sees a perfect woman, one never thinks of her
attributes--one is conscious of her presence."

"I shall be jealous when Tertius goes to Lowick," said Rosamond,
dimpling, and speaking with aery lightness.  "He will come back and
think nothing of me."

"That does not seem to have been the effect on Lydgate hitherto.  Mrs.
Casaubon is too unlike other women for them to be compared with her."

"You are a devout worshipper, I perceive.  You often see her, I
suppose."

"No," said Will, almost pettishly.  "Worship is usually a matter of
theory rather than of practice.  But I am practising it to excess just
at this moment--I must really tear myself away."

"Pray come again some evening: Mr. Lydgate will like to hear the music,
and I cannot enjoy it so well without him."

When her husband was at home again, Rosamond said, standing in front of
him and holding his coat-collar with both her hands, "Mr. Ladislaw was
here singing with me when Mrs. Casaubon came in.  He seemed vexed.  Do
you think he disliked her seeing him at our house?  Surely your
position is more than equal to his--whatever may be his relation to the
Casaubons."

"No, no; it must be something else if he were really vexed, Ladislaw is
a sort of gypsy; he thinks nothing of leather and prunella."

"Music apart, he is not always very agreeable.  Do you like him?"

"Yes: I think he is a good fellow: rather miscellaneous and
bric-a-brac, but likable."

"Do you know, I think he adores Mrs. Casaubon."

"Poor devil!" said Lydgate, smiling and pinching his wife's ears.

Rosamond felt herself beginning to know a great deal of the world,
especially in discovering what when she was in her unmarried girlhood
had been inconceivable to her except as a dim tragedy in by-gone
costumes--that women, even after marriage, might make conquests and
enslave men.  At that time young ladies in the country, even when
educated at Mrs. Lemon's, read little French literature later than
Racine, and public prints had not cast their present magnificent
illumination over the scandals of life.  Still, vanity, with a woman's
whole mind and day to work in, can construct abundantly on slight
hints, especially on such a hint as the possibility of indefinite
conquests.  How delightful to make captives from the throne of marriage
with a husband as crown-prince by your side--himself in fact a
subject--while the captives look up forever hopeless, losing their
rest probably, and if their appetite too, so much the better!  But
Rosamond's romance turned at present chiefly on her crown-prince, and
it was enough to enjoy his assured subjection.  When he said, "Poor
devil!" she asked, with playful curiosity--

"Why so?"

"Why, what can a man do when he takes to adoring one of you mermaids?
He only neglects his work and runs up bills."

"I am sure you do not neglect your work.  You are always at the
Hospital, or seeing poor patients, or thinking about some doctor's
quarrel; and then at home you always want to pore over your microscope
and phials.  Confess you like those things better than me."

"Haven't you ambition enough to wish that your husband should be
something better than a Middlemarch doctor?" said Lydgate, letting his
hands fall on to his wife's shoulders, and looking at her with
affectionate gravity.  "I shall make you learn my favorite bit from an
old poet--

        'Why should our pride make such a stir to be
         And be forgot?  What good is like to this,
         To do worthy the writing, and to write
         Worthy the reading and the worlds delight?'

What I want, Rosy, is to do worthy the writing,--and to write out
myself what I have done.  A man must work, to do that, my pet."

"Of course, I wish you to make discoveries: no one could more wish you
to attain a high position in some better place than Middlemarch.  You
cannot say that I have ever tried to hinder you from working.  But we
cannot live like hermits.  You are not discontented with me, Tertius?"

"No, dear, no.  I am too entirely contented."

"But what did Mrs. Casaubon want to say to you?"

"Merely to ask about her husband's health.  But I think she is going to
be splendid to our New Hospital: I think she will give us two hundred
a-year."



    I would not creep along the coast but steer
    Out in mid-sea, by guidance of the stars.


When Dorothea, walking round the laurel-planted plots of the New
Hospital with Lydgate, had learned from him that there were no signs of
change in Mr. Casaubon's bodily condition beyond the mental sign of
anxiety to know the truth about his illness, she was silent for a few
moments, wondering whether she had said or done anything to rouse this
new anxiety.  Lydgate, not willing to let slip an opportunity of
furthering a favorite purpose, ventured to say--

"I don't know whether your or Mr.--Casaubon's attention has been drawn
to the needs of our New Hospital.  Circumstances have made it seem
rather egotistic in me to urge the subject; but that is not my fault:
it is because there is a fight being made against it by the other
medical men.  I think you are generally interested in such things, for
I remember that when I first had the pleasure of seeing you at Tipton
Grange before your marriage, you were asking me some questions about
the way in which the health of the poor was affected by their miserable
housing."

"Yes, indeed," said Dorothea, brightening.  "I shall be quite grateful
to you if you will tell me how I can help to make things a little
better.  Everything of that sort has slipped away from me since I have
been married.  I mean," she said, after a moment's hesitation, "that
the people in our village are tolerably comfortable, and my mind has
been too much taken up for me to inquire further.  But here--in such a
place as Middlemarch--there must be a great deal to be done."

"There is everything to be done," said Lydgate, with abrupt energy.
"And this Hospital is a capital piece of work, due entirely to Mr.
Bulstrode's exertions, and in a great degree to his money.  But one man
can't do everything in a scheme of this sort.  Of course he looked
forward to help.  And now there's a mean, petty feud set up against the
thing in the town, by certain persons who want to make it a failure."

"What can be their reasons?" said Dorothea, with naive surprise.

"Chiefly Mr. Bulstrode's unpopularity, to begin with.  Half the town
would almost take trouble for the sake of thwarting him.  In this
stupid world most people never consider that a thing is good to be done
unless it is done by their own set.  I had no connection with Bulstrode
before I came here.  I look at him quite impartially, and I see that he
has some notions--that he has set things on foot--which I can turn to
good public purpose.  If a fair number of the better educated men went
to work with the belief that their observations might contribute to the
reform of medical doctrine and practice, we should soon see a change
for the better.  That's my point of view.  I hold that by refusing to
work with Mr. Bulstrode I should be turning my back on an opportunity
of making my profession more generally serviceable."

"I quite agree with you," said Dorothea, at once fascinated by the
situation sketched in Lydgate's words.  "But what is there against Mr.
Bulstrode?  I know that my uncle is friendly with him."

"People don't like his religious tone," said Lydgate, breaking off
there.

"That is all the stronger reason for despising such an opposition,"
said Dorothea, looking at the affairs of Middlemarch by the light of
the great persecutions.

"To put the matter quite fairly, they have other objections to him:--he
is masterful and rather unsociable, and he is concerned with trade,
which has complaints of its own that I know nothing about.  But what
has that to do with the question whether it would not be a fine thing
to establish here a more valuable hospital than any they have in the
county?  The immediate motive to the opposition, however, is the fact
that Bulstrode has put the medical direction into my hands.  Of course
I am glad of that.  It gives me an opportunity of doing some good
work,--and I am aware that I have to justify his choice of me.  But the
consequence is, that the whole profession in Middlemarch have set
themselves tooth and nail against the Hospital, and not only refuse to
cooperate themselves, but try to blacken the whole affair and hinder
subscriptions."

"How very petty!" exclaimed Dorothea, indignantly.

"I suppose one must expect to fight one's way: there is hardly anything
to be done without it.  And the ignorance of people about here is
stupendous.  I don't lay claim to anything else than having used some
opportunities which have not come within everybody's reach; but there
is no stifling the offence of being young, and a new-comer, and
happening to know something more than the old inhabitants.  Still, if I
believe that I can set going a better method of treatment--if I
believe that I can pursue certain observations and inquiries which may
be a lasting benefit to medical practice, I should be a base truckler
if I allowed any consideration of personal comfort to hinder me.  And
the course is all the clearer from there being no salary in question to
put my persistence in an equivocal light."

"I am glad you have told me this, Mr. Lydgate," said Dorothea,
cordially.  "I feel sure I can help a little.  I have some money, and
don't know what to do with it--that is often an uncomfortable thought
to me.  I am sure I can spare two hundred a-year for a grand purpose
like this.  How happy you must be, to know things that you feel sure
will do great good!  I wish I could awake with that knowledge every
morning.  There seems to be so much trouble taken that one can hardly
see the good of!"

There was a melancholy cadence in Dorothea's voice as she spoke these
last words.  But she presently added, more cheerfully, "Pray come to
Lowick and tell us more of this.  I will mention the subject to Mr.
Casaubon.  I must hasten home now."

She did mention it that evening, and said that she should like to
subscribe two hundred a-year--she had seven hundred a-year as the
equivalent of her own fortune, settled on her at her marriage.  Mr.
Casaubon made no objection beyond a passing remark that the sum might
be disproportionate in relation to other good objects, but when
Dorothea in her ignorance resisted that suggestion, he acquiesced.  He
did not care himself about spending money, and was not reluctant to
give it.  If he ever felt keenly any question of money it was through
the medium of another passion than the love of material property.

Dorothea told him that she had seen Lydgate, and recited the gist of
her conversation with him about the Hospital.  Mr. Casaubon did not
question her further, but he felt sure that she had wished to know what
had passed between Lydgate and himself "She knows that I know," said
the ever-restless voice within; but that increase of tacit knowledge
only thrust further off any confidence between them.  He distrusted her
affection; and what loneliness is more lonely than distrust?



    It is the humor of many heads to extol the days of their
    forefathers, and declaim against the wickedness of times
    present. Which notwithstanding they cannot handsomely do,
    without the borrowed help and satire of times past;
    condemning the vices of their own times, by the expressions
    of vices in times which they commend, which cannot but argue
    the community of vice in both. Horace, therefore, Juvenal,
    and Persius, were no prophets, although their lines did seem
    to indigitate and point at our times.--SIR THOMAS BROWNE:
    Pseudodoxia Epidemica.


That opposition to the New Fever Hospital which Lydgate had sketched to
Dorothea was, like other oppositions, to be viewed in many different
lights.  He regarded it as a mixture of jealousy and dunderheaded
prejudice.  Mr. Bulstrode saw in it not only medical jealousy but a
determination to thwart himself, prompted mainly by a hatred of that
vital religion of which he had striven to be an effectual lay
representative--a hatred which certainly found pretexts apart from
religion such as were only too easy to find in the entanglements of
human action.  These might be called the ministerial views.  But
oppositions have the illimitable range of objections at command, which
need never stop short at the boundary of knowledge, but can draw
forever on the vasts of ignorance.  What the opposition in Middlemarch
said about the New Hospital and its administration had certainly a
great deal of echo in it, for heaven has taken care that everybody
shall not be an originator; but there were differences which
represented every social shade between the polished moderation of Dr.
Minchin and the trenchant assertion of Mrs. Dollop, the landlady of the
Tankard in Slaughter Lane.

Mrs. Dollop became more and more convinced by her own asseveration,
that Dr. Lydgate meant to let the people die in the Hospital, if not to
poison them, for the sake of cutting them up without saying by your
leave or with your leave; for it was a known "fac" that he had wanted
to cut up Mrs. Goby, as respectable a woman as any in Parley Street,
who had money in trust before her marriage--a poor tale for a doctor,
who if he was good for anything should know what was the matter with
you before you died, and not want to pry into your inside after you
were gone.  If that was not reason, Mrs. Dollop wished to know what
was; but there was a prevalent feeling in her audience that her opinion
was a bulwark, and that if it were overthrown there would be no limits
to the cutting-up of bodies, as had been well seen in Burke and Hare
with their pitch-plaisters--such a hanging business as that was not
wanted in Middlemarch!

And let it not be supposed that opinion at the Tankard in Slaughter
Lane was unimportant to the medical profession: that old authentic
public-house--the original Tankard, known by the name of Dollop's--was
the resort of a great Benefit Club, which had some months before put to
the vote whether its long-standing medical man, "Doctor Gambit," should
not be cashiered in favor of "this Doctor Lydgate," who was capable of
performing the most astonishing cures, and rescuing people altogether
given up by other practitioners.  But the balance had been turned
against Lydgate by two members, who for some private reasons held that
this power of resuscitating persons as good as dead was an equivocal
recommendation, and might interfere with providential favors.  In the
course of the year, however, there had been a change in the public
sentiment, of which the unanimity at Dollop's was an index.

A good deal more than a year ago, before anything was known of
Lydgate's skill, the judgments on it had naturally been divided,
depending on a sense of likelihood, situated perhaps in the pit of the
stomach or in the pineal gland, and differing in its verdicts, but not
the less valuable as a guide in the total deficit of evidence.
Patients who had chronic diseases or whose lives had long been worn
threadbare, like old Featherstone's, had been at once inclined to try
him; also, many who did not like paying their doctor's bills, thought
agreeably of opening an account with a new doctor and sending for him
without stint if the children's temper wanted a dose, occasions when
the old practitioners were often crusty; and all persons thus inclined
to employ Lydgate held it likely that he was clever.  Some considered
that he might do more than others "where there was liver;"--at least
there would be no harm in getting a few bottles of "stuff" from him,
since if these proved useless it would still be possible to return to
the Purifying Pills, which kept you alive if they did not remove the
yellowness.  But these were people of minor importance.  Good
Middlemarch families were of course not going to change their doctor
without reason shown; and everybody who had employed Mr. Peacock did
not feel obliged to accept a new man merely in the character of his
successor, objecting that he was "not likely to be equal to Peacock."

But Lydgate had not been long in the town before there were particulars
enough reported of him to breed much more specific expectations and to
intensify differences into partisanship; some of the particulars being
of that impressive order of which the significance is entirely hidden,
like a statistical amount without a standard of comparison, but with a
note of exclamation at the end.  The cubic feet of oxygen yearly
swallowed by a full-grown man--what a shudder they might have created
in some Middlemarch circles!  "Oxygen! nobody knows what that may
be--is it any wonder the cholera has got to Dantzic?  And yet there are
people who say quarantine is no good!"

One of the facts quickly rumored was that Lydgate did not dispense
drugs.  This was offensive both to the physicians whose exclusive
distinction seemed infringed on, and to the surgeon-apothecaries with
whom he ranged himself; and only a little while before, they might have
counted on having the law on their side against a man who without
calling himself a London-made M.D. dared to ask for pay except as a
charge on drugs.  But Lydgate had not been experienced enough to
foresee that his new course would be even more offensive to the laity;
and to Mr. Mawmsey, an important grocer in the Top Market, who, though
not one of his patients, questioned him in an affable manner on the
subject, he was injudicious enough to give a hasty popular explanation
of his reasons, pointing out to Mr. Mawmsey that it must lower the
character of practitioners, and be a constant injury to the public, if
their only mode of getting paid for their work was by their making out
long bills for draughts, boluses, and mixtures.

"It is in that way that hard-working medical men may come to be almost
as mischievous as quacks," said Lydgate, rather thoughtlessly.  "To get
their own bread they must overdose the king's lieges; and that's a bad
sort of treason, Mr. Mawmsey--undermines the constitution in a fatal
way."

Mr. Mawmsey was not only an overseer (it was about a question of
outdoor pay that he was having an interview with Lydgate), he was also
asthmatic and had an increasing family: thus, from a medical point of
view, as well as from his own, he was an important man; indeed, an
exceptional grocer, whose hair was arranged in a flame-like pyramid,
and whose retail deference was of the cordial, encouraging
kind--jocosely complimentary, and with a certain considerate abstinence
from letting out the full force of his mind.  It was Mr. Mawmsey's
friendly jocoseness in questioning him which had set the tone of
Lydgate's reply.  But let the wise be warned against too great
readiness at explanation: it multiplies the sources of mistake,
lengthening the sum for reckoners sure to go wrong.

Lydgate smiled as he ended his speech, putting his foot into the
stirrup, and Mr. Mawmsey laughed more than he would have done if he had
known who the king's lieges were, giving his "Good morning, sir,
good-morning, sir," with the air of one who saw everything clearly
enough.  But in truth his views were perturbed.  For years he had been
paying bills with strictly made items, so that for every half-crown and
eighteen-pence he was certain something measurable had been delivered.
He had done this with satisfaction, including it among his
responsibilities as a husband and father, and regarding a longer bill
than usual as a dignity worth mentioning.  Moreover, in addition to the
massive benefit of the drugs to "self and family," he had enjoyed the
pleasure of forming an acute judgment as to their immediate effects, so
as to give an intelligent statement for the guidance of Mr. Gambit--a
practitioner just a little lower in status than Wrench or Toller, and
especially esteemed as an accoucheur, of whose ability Mr. Mawmsey had
the poorest opinion on all other points, but in doctoring, he was wont
to say in an undertone, he placed Gambit above any of them.

Here were deeper reasons than the superficial talk of a new man, which
appeared still flimsier in the drawing-room over the shop, when they
were recited to Mrs. Mawmsey, a woman accustomed to be made much of as
a fertile mother,--generally under attendance more or less frequent
from Mr. Gambit, and occasionally having attacks which required Dr.
Minchin.

"Does this Mr. Lydgate mean to say there is no use in taking medicine?"
said Mrs. Mawmsey, who was slightly given to drawling.  "I should like
him to tell me how I could bear up at Fair time, if I didn't take
strengthening medicine for a month beforehand.  Think of what I have to
provide for calling customers, my dear!"--here Mrs. Mawmsey turned to
an intimate female friend who sat by--"a large veal pie--a stuffed
fillet--a round of beef--ham, tongue, et cetera, et cetera!  But what
keeps me up best is the pink mixture, not the brown.  I wonder, Mr.
Mawmsey, with _your_ experience, you could have patience to listen.  I
should have told him at once that I knew a little better than that."

"No, no, no," said Mr. Mawmsey; "I was not going to tell him my
opinion.  Hear everything and judge for yourself is my motto.  But he
didn't know who he was talking to.  I was not to be turned on _his_
finger.  People often pretend to tell me things, when they might as
well say, 'Mawmsey, you're a fool.'  But I smile at it: I humor
everybody's weak place.  If physic had done harm to self and family, I
should have found it out by this time."

The next day Mr. Gambit was told that Lydgate went about saying physic
was of no use.

"Indeed!" said he, lifting his eyebrows with cautious surprise.  (He
was a stout husky man with a large ring on his fourth finger.) "How
will he cure his patients, then?"

"That is what I say," returned Mrs. Mawmsey, who habitually gave weight
to her speech by loading her pronouns.  "Does _he_ suppose that people
will pay him only to come and sit with them and go away again?"

Mrs. Mawmsey had had a great deal of sitting from Mr. Gambit, including
very full accounts of his own habits of body and other affairs; but of
course he knew there was no innuendo in her remark, since his spare
time and personal narrative had never been charged for.  So he replied,
humorously--

"Well, Lydgate is a good-looking young fellow, you know."

"Not one that I would employ," said Mrs. Mawmsey.  "_Others_ may do as
they please."

Hence Mr. Gambit could go away from the chief grocer's without fear of
rivalry, but not without a sense that Lydgate was one of those
hypocrites who try to discredit others by advertising their own
honesty, and that it might be worth some people's while to show him up.
Mr. Gambit, however, had a satisfactory practice, much pervaded by the
smells of retail trading which suggested the reduction of cash payments
to a balance.  And he did not think it worth his while to show Lydgate
up until he knew how.  He had not indeed great resources of education,
and had had to work his own way against a good deal of professional
contempt; but he made none the worse accoucheur for calling the
breathing apparatus "longs."

Other medical men felt themselves more capable.  Mr. Toller shared the
highest practice in the town and belonged to an old Middlemarch family:
there were Tollers in the law and everything else above the line of
retail trade.  Unlike our irascible friend Wrench, he had the easiest
way in the world of taking things which might be supposed to annoy him,
being a well-bred, quietly facetious man, who kept a good house, was
very fond of a little sporting when he could get it, very friendly with
Mr. Hawley, and hostile to Mr. Bulstrode.  It may seem odd that with
such pleasant habits he should have been given to the heroic treatment,
bleeding and blistering and starving his patients, with a dispassionate
disregard to his personal example; but the incongruity favored the
opinion of his ability among his patients, who commonly observed that
Mr. Toller had lazy manners, but his treatment was as active as you
could desire: no man, said they, carried more seriousness into his
profession: he was a little slow in coming, but when he came, he _did_
something.  He was a great favorite in his own circle, and whatever he
implied to any one's disadvantage told doubly from his careless
ironical tone.

He naturally got tired of smiling and saying, "Ah!" when he was told
that Mr. Peacock's successor did not mean to dispense medicines; and
Mr. Hackbutt one day mentioning it over the wine at a dinner-party, Mr.
Toller said, laughingly, "Dibbitts will get rid of his stale drugs,
then.  I'm fond of little Dibbitts--I'm glad he's in luck."

"I see your meaning, Toller," said Mr. Hackbutt, "and I am entirely of
your opinion.  I shall take an opportunity of expressing myself to that
effect.  A medical man should be responsible for the quality of the
drugs consumed by his patients.  That is the rationale of the system of
charging which has hitherto obtained; and nothing is more offensive
than this ostentation of reform, where there is no real amelioration."

"Ostentation, Hackbutt?" said Mr. Toller, ironically.  "I don't see
that.  A man can't very well be ostentatious of what nobody believes
in.  There's no reform in the matter: the question is, whether the
profit on the drugs is paid to the medical man by the druggist or by
the patient, and whether there shall be extra pay under the name of
attendance."

"Ah, to be sure; one of your damned new versions of old humbug," said
Mr. Hawley, passing the decanter to Mr. Wrench.

Mr. Wrench, generally abstemious, often drank wine rather freely at a
party, getting the more irritable in consequence.

"As to humbug, Hawley," he said, "that's a word easy to fling about.
But what I contend against is the way medical men are fouling their own
nest, and setting up a cry about the country as if a general
practitioner who dispenses drugs couldn't be a gentleman.  I throw back
the imputation with scorn.  I say, the most ungentlemanly trick a man
can be guilty of is to come among the members of his profession with
innovations which are a libel on their time-honored procedure.  That is
my opinion, and I am ready to maintain it against any one who
contradicts me."  Mr. Wrench's voice had become exceedingly sharp.

"I can't oblige you there, Wrench," said Mr. Hawley, thrusting his
hands into his trouser-pockets.

"My dear fellow," said Mr. Toller, striking in pacifically, and looking
at Mr. Wrench, "the physicians have their toes trodden on more than we
have.  If you come to dignity it is a question for Minchin and Sprague."

"Does medical jurisprudence provide nothing against these
infringements?" said Mr. Hackbutt, with a disinterested desire to offer
his lights.  "How does the law stand, eh, Hawley?"

"Nothing to be done there," said Mr. Hawley.  "I looked into it for
Sprague.  You'd only break your nose against a damned judge's decision."

"Pooh! no need of law," said Mr. Toller.  "So far as practice is
concerned the attempt is an absurdity.  No patient will like
it--certainly not Peacock's, who have been used to depletion.  Pass the
wine."

Mr. Toller's prediction was partly verified.  If Mr. and Mrs. Mawmsey,
who had no idea of employing Lydgate, were made uneasy by his supposed
declaration against drugs, it was inevitable that those who called him
in should watch a little anxiously to see whether he did "use all the
means he might use" in the case.  Even good Mr. Powderell, who in his
constant charity of interpretation was inclined to esteem Lydgate the
more for what seemed a conscientious pursuit of a better plan, had his
mind disturbed with doubts during his wife's attack of erysipelas, and
could not abstain from mentioning to Lydgate that Mr. Peacock on a
similar occasion had administered a series of boluses which were not
otherwise definable than by their remarkable effect in bringing Mrs.
Powderell round before Michaelmas from an illness which had begun in a
remarkably hot August.  At last, indeed, in the conflict between his
desire not to hurt Lydgate and his anxiety that no "means" should be
lacking, he induced his wife privately to take Widgeon's Purifying
Pills, an esteemed Middlemarch medicine, which arrested every disease
at the fountain by setting to work at once upon the blood.  This
co-operative measure was not to be mentioned to Lydgate, and Mr.
Powderell himself had no certain reliance on it, only hoping that it
might be attended with a blessing.

But in this doubtful stage of Lydgate's introduction he was helped by
what we mortals rashly call good fortune.  I suppose no doctor ever
came newly to a place without making cures that surprised somebody--cures
which may be called fortune's testimonials, and deserve as much
credit as the written or printed kind.  Various patients got well while
Lydgate was attending them, some even of dangerous illnesses; and it
was remarked that the new doctor with his new ways had at least the
merit of bringing people back from the brink of death.  The trash
talked on such occasions was the more vexatious to Lydgate, because it
gave precisely the sort of prestige which an incompetent and
unscrupulous man would desire, and was sure to be imputed to him by the
simmering dislike of the other medical men as an encouragement on his
own part of ignorant puffing.  But even his proud outspokenness was
checked by the discernment that it was as useless to fight against the
interpretations of ignorance as to whip the fog; and "good fortune"
insisted on using those interpretations.

Mrs. Larcher having just become charitably concerned about alarming
symptoms in her charwoman, when Dr. Minchin called, asked him to see
her then and there, and to give her a certificate for the Infirmary;
whereupon after examination he wrote a statement of the case as one of
tumor, and recommended the bearer Nancy Nash as an out-patient. Nancy,
calling at home on her way to the Infirmary, allowed the stay maker and
his wife, in whose attic she lodged, to read Dr. Minchin's paper, and
by this means became a subject of compassionate conversation in the
neighboring shops of Churchyard Lane as being afflicted with a tumor at
first declared to be as large and hard as a duck's egg, but later in
the day to be about the size of "your fist." Most hearers agreed that
it would have to be cut out, but one had known of oil and another of
"squitchineal" as adequate to soften and reduce any lump in the body
when taken enough of into the inside--the oil by gradually "soopling,"
the squitchineal by eating away.

Meanwhile when Nancy presented herself at the Infirmary, it happened to
be one of Lydgate's days there.  After questioning and examining her,
Lydgate said to the house-surgeon in an undertone, "It's not tumor:
it's cramp."  He ordered her a blister and some steel mixture, and told
her to go home and rest, giving her at the same time a note to Mrs.
Larcher, who, she said, was her best employer, to testify that she was
in need of good food.

But by-and-by Nancy, in her attic, became portentously worse, the
supposed tumor having indeed given way to the blister, but only
wandered to another region with angrier pain.  The staymaker's wife
went to fetch Lydgate, and he continued for a fortnight to attend Nancy
in her own home, until under his treatment she got quite well and went
to work again.  But the case continued to be described as one of tumor
in Churchyard Lane and other streets--nay, by Mrs. Larcher also; for
when Lydgate's remarkable cure was mentioned to Dr. Minchin, he
naturally did not like to say, "The case was not one of tumor, and I
was mistaken in describing it as such," but answered, "Indeed! ah!  I
saw it was a surgical case, not of a fatal kind." He had been inwardly
annoyed, however, when he had asked at the Infirmary about the woman he
had recommended two days before, to hear from the house-surgeon, a
youngster who was not sorry to vex Minchin with impunity, exactly what
had occurred: he privately pronounced that it was indecent in a general
practitioner to contradict a physician's diagnosis in that open manner,
and afterwards agreed with Wrench that Lydgate was disagreeably
inattentive to etiquette.  Lydgate did not make the affair a ground for
valuing himself or (very particularly) despising Minchin, such
rectification of misjudgments often happening among men of equal
qualifications.  But report took up this amazing case of tumor, not
clearly distinguished from cancer, and considered the more awful for
being of the wandering sort; till much prejudice against Lydgate's
method as to drugs was overcome by the proof of his marvellous skill in
the speedy restoration of Nancy Nash after she had been rolling and
rolling in agonies from the presence of a tumor both hard and
obstinate, but nevertheless compelled to yield.

How could Lydgate help himself?  It is offensive to tell a lady when
she is expressing her amazement at your skill, that she is altogether
mistaken and rather foolish in her amazement.  And to have entered into
the nature of diseases would only have added to his breaches of medical
propriety.  Thus he had to wince under a promise of success given by
that ignorant praise which misses every valid quality.

In the case of a more conspicuous patient, Mr. Borthrop Trumbull,
Lydgate was conscious of having shown himself something better than an
every-day doctor, though here too it was an equivocal advantage that he
won.  The eloquent auctioneer was seized with pneumonia, and having
been a patient of Mr. Peacock's, sent for Lydgate, whom he had
expressed his intention to patronize.  Mr Trumbull was a robust man, a
good subject for trying the expectant theory upon--watching the course
of an interesting disease when left as much as possible to itself, so
that the stages might be noted for future guidance; and from the air
with which he described his sensations Lydgate surmised that he would
like to be taken into his medical man's confidence, and be represented
as a partner in his own cure.  The auctioneer heard, without much
surprise, that his was a constitution which (always with due watching)
might be left to itself, so as to offer a beautiful example of a
disease with all its phases seen in clear delineation, and that he
probably had the rare strength of mind voluntarily to become the test
of a rational procedure, and thus make the disorder of his pulmonary
functions a general benefit to society.

Mr. Trumbull acquiesced at once, and entered strongly into the view
that an illness of his was no ordinary occasion for medical science.

"Never fear, sir; you are not speaking to one who is altogether
ignorant of the vis medicatrix," said he, with his usual superiority of
expression, made rather pathetic by difficulty of breathing.  And he
went without shrinking through his abstinence from drugs, much
sustained by application of the thermometer which implied the
importance of his temperature, by the sense that he furnished objects
for the microscope, and by learning many new words which seemed suited
to the dignity of his secretions.  For Lydgate was acute enough to
indulge him with a little technical talk.

It may be imagined that Mr. Trumbull rose from his couch with a
disposition to speak of an illness in which he had manifested the
strength of his mind as well as constitution; and he was not backward
in awarding credit to the medical man who had discerned the quality of
patient he had to deal with.  The auctioneer was not an ungenerous man,
and liked to give others their due, feeling that he could afford it.
He had caught the words "expectant method," and rang chimes on this and
other learned phrases to accompany the assurance that Lydgate "knew a
thing or two more than the rest of the doctors--was far better versed
in the secrets of his profession than the majority of his compeers."

This had happened before the affair of Fred Vincy's illness had given
to Mr. Wrench's enmity towards Lydgate more definite personal ground.
The new-comer already threatened to be a nuisance in the shape of
rivalry, and was certainly a nuisance in the shape of practical
criticism or reflections on his hard-driven elders, who had had
something else to do than to busy themselves with untried notions.  His
practice had spread in one or two quarters, and from the first the
report of his high family had led to his being pretty generally
invited, so that the other medical men had to meet him at dinner in the
best houses; and having to meet a man whom you dislike is not observed
always to end in a mutual attachment.  There was hardly ever so much
unanimity among them as in the opinion that Lydgate was an arrogant
young fellow, and yet ready for the sake of ultimately predominating to
show a crawling subservience to Bulstrode.  That Mr. Farebrother, whose
name was a chief flag of the anti-Bulstrode party, always defended
Lydgate and made a friend of him, was referred to Farebrother's
unaccountable way of fighting on both sides.

Here was plenty of preparation for the outburst of professional disgust
at the announcement of the laws Mr. Bulstrode was laying down for the
direction of the New Hospital, which were the more exasperating because
there was no present possibility of interfering with his will and
pleasure, everybody except Lord Medlicote having refused help towards
the building, on the ground that they preferred giving to the Old
Infirmary.  Mr. Bulstrode met all the expenses, and had ceased to be
sorry that he was purchasing the right to carry out his notions of
improvement without hindrance from prejudiced coadjutors; but he had
had to spend large sums, and the building had lingered.  Caleb Garth
had undertaken it, had failed during its progress, and before the
interior fittings were begun had retired from the management of the
business; and when referring to the Hospital he often said that however
Bulstrode might ring if you tried him, he liked good solid carpentry
and masonry, and had a notion both of drains and chimneys.  In fact,
the Hospital had become an object of intense interest to Bulstrode, and
he would willingly have continued to spare a large yearly sum that he
might rule it dictatorially without any Board; but he had another
favorite object which also required money for its accomplishment: he
wished to buy some land in the neighborhood of Middlemarch, and
therefore he wished to get considerable contributions towards
maintaining the Hospital.  Meanwhile he framed his plan of management.
The Hospital was to be reserved for fever in all its forms; Lydgate was
to be chief medical superintendent, that he might have free authority
to pursue all comparative investigations which his studies,
particularly in Paris, had shown him the importance of, the other
medical visitors having a consultative influence, but no power to
contravene Lydgate's ultimate decisions; and the general management was
to be lodged exclusively in the hands of five directors associated with
Mr. Bulstrode, who were to have votes in the ratio of their
contributions, the Board itself filling up any vacancy in its numbers,
and no mob of small contributors being admitted to a share of
government.

There was an immediate refusal on the part of every medical man in the
town to become a visitor at the Fever Hospital.

"Very well," said Lydgate to Mr. Bulstrode, "we have a capital
house-surgeon and dispenser, a clear-headed, neat-handed fellow; we'll
get Webbe from Crabsley, as good a country practitioner as any of them,
to come over twice a-week, and in case of any exceptional operation,
Protheroe will come from Brassing.  I must work the harder, that's all,
and I have given up my post at the Infirmary.  The plan will flourish
in spite of them, and then they'll be glad to come in.  Things can't
last as they are: there must be all sorts of reform soon, and then
young fellows may be glad to come and study here."  Lydgate was in high
spirits.

"I shall not flinch, you may depend upon it, Mr. Lydgate," said Mr.
Bulstrode.  "While I see you carrying out high intentions with vigor,
you shall have my unfailing support.  And I have humble confidence that
the blessing which has hitherto attended my efforts against the spirit
of evil in this town will not be withdrawn.  Suitable directors to
assist me I have no doubt of securing.  Mr. Brooke of Tipton has
already given me his concurrence, and a pledge to contribute yearly: he
has not specified the sum--probably not a great one.  But he will be a
useful member of the board."

A useful member was perhaps to be defined as one who would originate
nothing, and always vote with Mr. Bulstrode.

The medical aversion to Lydgate was hardly disguised now.  Neither Dr.
Sprague nor Dr. Minchin said that he disliked Lydgate's knowledge, or
his disposition to improve treatment: what they disliked was his
arrogance, which nobody felt to be altogether deniable.  They implied
that he was insolent, pretentious, and given to that reckless
innovation for the sake of noise and show which was the essence of the
charlatan.

The word charlatan once thrown on the air could not be let drop.  In
those days the world was agitated about the wondrous doings of Mr. St.
John Long, "noblemen and gentlemen" attesting his extraction of a fluid
like mercury from the temples of a patient.

Mr. Toller remarked one day, smilingly, to Mrs. Taft, that "Bulstrode
had found a man to suit him in Lydgate; a charlatan in religion is sure
to like other sorts of charlatans."

"Yes, indeed, I can imagine," said Mrs. Taft, keeping the number of
thirty stitches carefully in her mind all the while; "there are so many
of that sort.  I remember Mr. Cheshire, with his irons, trying to make
people straight when the Almighty had made them crooked."

"No, no," said Mr. Toller, "Cheshire was all right--all fair and above
board.  But there's St. John Long--that's the kind of fellow we call a
charlatan, advertising cures in ways nobody knows anything about: a
fellow who wants to make a noise by pretending to go deeper than other
people.  The other day he was pretending to tap a man's brain and get
quicksilver out of it."

"Good gracious! what dreadful trifling with people's constitutions!"
said Mrs. Taft.

After this, it came to be held in various quarters that Lydgate played
even with respectable constitutions for his own purposes, and how much
more likely that in his flighty experimenting he should make sixes and
sevens of hospital patients.  Especially it was to be expected, as the
landlady of the Tankard had said, that he would recklessly cut up their
dead bodies.  For Lydgate having attended Mrs. Goby, who died
apparently of a heart-disease not very clearly expressed in the
symptoms, too daringly asked leave of her relatives to open the body,
and thus gave an offence quickly spreading beyond Parley Street, where
that lady had long resided on an income such as made this association
of her body with the victims of Burke and Hare a flagrant insult to her
memory.

Affairs were in this stage when Lydgate opened the subject of the
Hospital to Dorothea.  We see that he was bearing enmity and silly
misconception with much spirit, aware that they were partly created by
his good share of success.

"They will not drive me away," he said, talking confidentially in Mr.
Farebrother's study.  "I have got a good opportunity here, for the ends
I care most about; and I am pretty sure to get income enough for our
wants.  By-and-by I shall go on as quietly as possible: I have no
seductions now away from home and work.  And I am more and more
convinced that it will be possible to demonstrate the homogeneous
origin of all the tissues.  Raspail and others are on the same track,
and I have been losing time."

"I have no power of prophecy there," said Mr. Farebrother, who had been
puffing at his pipe thoughtfully while Lydgate talked; "but as to the
hostility in the town, you'll weather it if you are prudent."

"How am I to be prudent?" said Lydgate, "I just do what comes before me
to do.  I can't help people's ignorance and spite, any more than
Vesalius could.  It isn't possible to square one's conduct to silly
conclusions which nobody can foresee."

"Quite true; I didn't mean that.  I meant only two things.  One is,
keep yourself as separable from Bulstrode as you can: of course, you
can go on doing good work of your own by his help; but don't get tied.
Perhaps it seems like personal feeling in me to say so--and there's a
good deal of that, I own--but personal feeling is not always in the
wrong if you boil it down to the impressions which make it simply an
opinion."

"Bulstrode is nothing to me," said Lydgate, carelessly, "except on
public grounds.  As to getting very closely united to him, I am not
fond enough of him for that.  But what was the other thing you meant?"
said Lydgate, who was nursing his leg as comfortably as possible, and
feeling in no great need of advice.

"Why, this.  Take care--experto crede--take care not to get hampered
about money matters.  I know, by a word you let fall one day, that you
don't like my playing at cards so much for money.  You are right enough
there.  But try and keep clear of wanting small sums that you haven't
got.  I am perhaps talking rather superfluously; but a man likes to
assume superiority over himself, by holding up his bad example and
sermonizing on it."

Lydgate took Mr. Farebrother's hints very cordially, though he would
hardly have borne them from another man.  He could not help remembering
that he had lately made some debts, but these had seemed inevitable,
and he had no intention now to do more than keep house in a simple way.
The furniture for which he owed would not want renewing; nor even the
stock of wine for a long while.

Many thoughts cheered him at that time--and justly.  A man conscious of
enthusiasm for worthy aims is sustained under petty hostilities by the
memory of great workers who had to fight their way not without wounds,
and who hover in his mind as patron saints, invisibly helping.  At
home, that same evening when he had been chatting with Mr. Farebrother,
he had his long legs stretched on the sofa, his head thrown back, and
his hands clasped behind it according to his favorite ruminating
attitude, while Rosamond sat at the piano, and played one tune after
another, of which her husband only knew (like the emotional elephant he
was!) that they fell in with his mood as if they had been melodious
sea-breezes.

There was something very fine in Lydgate's look just then, and any one
might have been encouraged to bet on his achievement.  In his dark eyes
and on his mouth and brow there was that placidity which comes from the
fulness of contemplative thought--the mind not searching, but
beholding, and the glance seeming to be filled with what is behind it.

Presently Rosamond left the piano and seated herself on a chair close
to the sofa and opposite her husband's face.

"Is that enough music for you, my lord?" she said, folding her hands
before her and putting on a little air of meekness.

"Yes, dear, if you are tired," said Lydgate, gently, turning his eyes
and resting them on her, but not otherwise moving.  Rosamond's presence
at that moment was perhaps no more than a spoonful brought to the lake,
and her woman's instinct in this matter was not dull.


"What is absorbing you?" she said, leaning forward and bringing her
face nearer to his.

He moved his hands and placed them gently behind her shoulders.

"I am thinking of a great fellow, who was about as old as I am three
hundred years ago, and had already begun a new era in anatomy."

"I can't guess," said Rosamond, shaking her head.  "We used to play at
guessing historical characters at Mrs. Lemon's, but not anatomists."

"I'll tell you.  His name was Vesalius.  And the only way he could get
to know anatomy as he did, was by going to snatch bodies at night, from
graveyards and places of execution."

"Oh!" said Rosamond, with a look of disgust on her pretty face, "I am
very glad you are not Vesalius.  I should have thought he might find
some less horrible way than that."

"No, he couldn't," said Lydgate, going on too earnestly to take much
notice of her answer.  "He could only get a complete skeleton by
snatching the whitened bones of a criminal from the gallows, and
burying them, and fetching them away by bits secretly, in the dead of
night."

"I hope he is not one of your great heroes," said Rosamond, half
playfully, half anxiously, "else I shall have you getting up in the
night to go to St. Peter's churchyard.  You know how angry you told me
the people were about Mrs. Goby.  You have enemies enough already."

"So had Vesalius, Rosy.  No wonder the medical fogies in Middlemarch
are jealous, when some of the greatest doctors living were fierce upon
Vesalius because they had believed in Galen, and he showed that Galen
was wrong.  They called him a liar and a poisonous monster.  But the
facts of the human frame were on his side; and so he got the better of
them."

"And what happened to him afterwards?" said Rosamond, with some
interest.

"Oh, he had a good deal of fighting to the last.  And they did
exasperate him enough at one time to make him burn a good deal of his
work.  Then he got shipwrecked just as he was coming from Jerusalem to
take a great chair at Padua.  He died rather miserably."

There was a moment's pause before Rosamond said, "Do you know, Tertius,
I often wish you had not been a medical man."

"Nay, Rosy, don't say that," said Lydgate, drawing her closer to him.
"That is like saying you wish you had married another man."

"Not at all; you are clever enough for anything: you might easily have
been something else.  And your cousins at Quallingham all think that
you have sunk below them in your choice of a profession."

"The cousins at Quallingham may go to the devil!" said Lydgate, with
scorn.  "It was like their impudence if they said anything of the sort
to you."

"Still," said Rosamond, "I do _not_ think it is a nice profession,
dear."  We know that she had much quiet perseverance in her opinion.

"It is the grandest profession in the world, Rosamond," said Lydgate,
gravely.  "And to say that you love me without loving the medical man
in me, is the same sort of thing as to say that you like eating a peach
but don't like its flavor.  Don't say that again, dear, it pains me."

"Very well, Doctor Grave-face," said Rosy, dimpling, "I will declare in
future that I dote on skeletons, and body-snatchers, and bits of things
in phials, and quarrels with everybody, that end in your dying
miserably."

"No, no, not so bad as that," said Lydgate, giving up remonstrance and
petting her resignedly.

 We see Casaubon's worried state of mind. He feels his work is not respected and that Dorothea judges him, even in her devotion. Though he knows her to be virtuous, he feels she has betrayed him by being influenced by Will Ladislaw. He thinks she needs to be protected from herself, and worries Ladislaw may go after her if he dies. The narrator says, the self is like a speck on the lens: it can blot out the glory of the world. . Casaubon asks Lydgate to tell him the truth of his condition and finds he has fatty degeneration of the heart, which could lead to sudden death. The narrator points out the only reason Dorothea criticizes Casaubon is that he rejects her. " Her soul  in prison that she might be petty enough to please him." . Dorothea goes to the Lydgates' home in order to find out about her husband's condition. Lydgate is at the hospital, so she meets Mrs. Lydgate who is singing with a guest in the background. The narrator contrasts the two women: Dorothea is full of divine simplicity, and Rosamond is a fashion plate with "controlled self-consciousness of manner." . Just then Will comes forward, and Dorothea is surprised to see him there. The image she had of Will is spoiled, and she leaves suddenly. Will is annoyed and leaves too. He had made friends of the Lydgates in his loneliness. Rosamond asked Will what other men think of in Mrs. Casaubon's company. Will replies, "Herself--one is conscious of her presence." Rosamond sees he is devoted to Dorothea, and she thinks to herself that a married woman might safely make infinite conquests. . Lydgate asks Dorothea's help with the hospital, and she pledges two hundred a year to help him. Lydgate is disliked by the whole medical community for his new ways, and now the town is rumoring about his dangerous methods of dissection and his belief in not dispensing drugs. In addition, he is supported by Bulstrode, who is disliked for his bullying control of the town. All the doctors boycott the hospital, so Lydgate must work harder. Mr. Farebrother tells him he can weather the storm if he distances himself from Bulstrode and does not get hampered by money troubles. . Lydgate tells Rosamond the story of Vesalius, the father of dissection, who was persecuted for his investigations. Clearly he feels in similar shoes, but Rosamond has no sympathy, saying she wishes he were not a doctor; it is a low profession. . .

