by George Eliot
CHAPTER XIX.
"L' altra vedete ch'ha fatto alla guancia Della sua palma, sospirando, letto." --Purgatorio, vii.
When George the Fourth was still reigning over the privacies ofWindsor, when the Duke of Wellington was Prime Minister, and Mr. Vincywas mayor of the old corporation in Middlemarch, Mrs. Casaubon, bornDorothea Brooke, had taken her wedding journey to Rome. In those daysthe world in general was more ignorant of good and evil by forty yearsthan it is at present. Travellers did not often carry full informationon Christian art either in their heads or their pockets; and even themost brilliant English critic of the day mistook the flower-flushedtomb of the ascended Virgin for an ornamental vase due to the painter'sfancy. Romanticism, which has helped to fill some dull blanks withlove and knowledge, had not yet penetrated the times with its leavenand entered into everybody's food; it was fermenting still as adistinguishable vigorous enthusiasm in certain long-haired Germanartists at Rome, and the youth of other nations who worked or idlednear them were sometimes caught in the spreading movement.
One fine morning a young man whose hair was not immoderately long, butabundant and curly, and who was otherwise English in his equipment, hadjust turned his back on the Belvedere Torso in the Vatican and waslooking out on the magnificent view of the mountains from the adjoininground vestibule. He was sufficiently absorbed not to notice theapproach of a dark-eyed, animated German who came up to him and placinga hand on his shoulder, said with a strong accent, "Come here, quick!else she will have changed her pose."
Quickness was ready at the call, and the two figures passed lightlyalong by the Meleager, towards the hall where the reclining Ariadne,then called the Cleopatra, lies in the marble voluptuousness of herbeauty, the drapery folding around her with a petal-like ease andtenderness. They were just in time to see another figure standingagainst a pedestal near the reclining marble: a breathing bloominggirl, whose form, not shamed by the Ariadne, was clad in Quakerish graydrapery; her long cloak, fastened at the neck, was thrown backward fromher arms, and one beautiful ungloved hand pillowed her cheek, pushingsomewhat backward the white beaver bonnet which made a sort of halo toher face around the simply braided dark-brown hair. She was notlooking at the sculpture, probably not thinking of it: her large eyeswere fixed dreamily on a streak of sunlight which fell across thefloor. But she became conscious of the two strangers who suddenlypaused as if to contemplate the Cleopatra, and, without looking atthem, immediately turned away to join a maid-servant and courier whowere loitering along the hall at a little distance off.
"What do you think of that for a fine bit of antithesis?" said theGerman, searching in his friend's face for responding admiration, butgoing on volubly without waiting for any other answer. "There liesantique beauty, not corpse-like even in death, but arrested in thecomplete contentment of its sensuous perfection: and here stands beautyin its breathing life, with the consciousness of Christian centuries inits bosom. But she should be dressed as a nun; I think she looksalmost what you call a Quaker; I would dress her as a nun in mypicture. However, she is married; I saw her wedding-ring on thatwonderful left hand, otherwise I should have thought the sallowGeistlicher was her father. I saw him parting from her a good whileago, and just now I found her in that magnificent pose. Only think! heis perhaps rich, and would like to have her portrait taken. Ah! it isno use looking after her--there she goes! Let us follow her home!"
"No, no," said his companion, with a little frown.
"You are singular, Ladislaw. You look struck together. Do you knowher?"
"I know that she is married to my cousin," said Will Ladislaw,sauntering down the hall with a preoccupied air, while his Germanfriend kept at his side and watched him eagerly.
"What! the Geistlicher? He looks more like an uncle--a more useful sortof relation."
"He is not my uncle. I tell you he is my second cousin," saidLadislaw, with some irritation.
"Schon, schon. Don't be snappish. You are not angry with me forthinking Mrs. Second-Cousin the most perfect young Madonna I ever saw?"
"Angry? nonsense. I have only seen her once before, for a couple ofminutes, when my cousin introduced her to me, just before I leftEngland. They were not married then. I didn't know they were comingto Rome."
"But you will go to see them now--you will find out what they have foran address--since you know the name. Shall we go to the post? And youcould speak about the portrait."
"Confound you, Naumann! I don't know what I shall do. I am not sobrazen as you."
"Bah! that is because you are dilettantish and amateurish. If you werean artist, you would think of Mistress Second-Cousin as antique formanimated by Christian sentiment--a sort of Christian Antigone--sensuousforce controlled by spiritual passion."
"Yes, and that your painting her was the chief outcome of herexistence--the divinity passing into higher completeness and all butexhausted in the act of covering your bit of canvas. I am amateurishif you like: I do _not_ think that all the universe is strainingtowards the obscure significance of your pictures."
"But it is, my dear!--so far as it is straining through me, AdolfNaumann: that stands firm," said the good-natured painter, putting ahand on Ladislaw's shoulder, and not in the least disturbed by theunaccountable touch of ill-humor in his tone. "See now! My existencepresupposes the existence of the whole universe--does it _not?_ and myfunction is to paint--and as a painter I have a conception which isaltogether genialisch, of your great-aunt or second grandmother as asubject for a picture; therefore, the universe is straining towardsthat picture through that particular hook or claw which it puts forthin the shape of me--not true?"
"But how if another claw in the shape of me is straining to thwartit?--the case is a little less simple then."
"Not at all: the result of the struggle is the same thing--picture orno picture--logically."
Will could not resist this imperturbable temper, and the cloud in hisface broke into sunshiny laughter.
"Come now, my friend--you will help?" said Naumann, in a hopeful tone.
"No; nonsense, Naumann! English ladies are not at everybody's serviceas models. And you want to express too much with your painting. Youwould only have made a better or worse portrait with a background whichevery connoisseur would give a different reason for or against. Andwhat is a portrait of a woman? Your painting and Plastik are poorstuff after all. They perturb and dull conceptions instead of raisingthem. Language is a finer medium."
"Yes, for those who can't paint," said Naumann. "There you haveperfect right. I did not recommend you to paint, my friend."
The amiable artist carried his sting, but Ladislaw did not choose toappear stung. He went on as if he had not heard.
"Language gives a fuller image, which is all the better for beingsvague. After all, the true seeing is within; and painting stares atyou with an insistent imperfection. I feel that especially aboutrepresentations of women. As if a woman were a mere coloredsuperficies! You must wait for movement and tone. There is adifference in their very breathing: they change from moment tomoment.--This woman whom you have just seen, for example: how would youpaint her voice, pray? But her voice is much diviner than anything youhave seen of her."
"I see, I see. You are jealous. No man must presume to think that hecan paint your ideal. This is serious, my friend! Your great-aunt!'Der Neffe als Onkel' in a tragic sense--ungeheuer!"
"You and I shall quarrel, Naumann, if you call that lady my aunt again."
"How is she to be called then?"
"Mrs. Casaubon."
"Good. Suppose I get acquainted with her in spite of you, and findthat she very much wishes to be painted?"
"Yes, suppose!" said Will Ladislaw, in a contemptuous undertone,intended to dismiss the subject. He was conscious of being irritatedby ridiculously small causes, which were half of his own creation. Whywas he making any fuss about Mrs. Casaubon? And yet he felt as ifsomething had happened to him with rega
rd to her. There are characterswhich are continually creating collisions and nodes for themselves indramas which nobody is prepared to act with them. Theirsusceptibilities will clash against objects that remain innocentlyquiet.
