“Well, there is something in that, you know,”
said Mr. Brooke, who had certainly an impartial mind.
“It is, I fear, nothing more than a part of
his general inaccuracy and indisposition to thoroughness
of all kinds, which would be a bad augury for him
in any profession, civil or sacred, even were he so
far submissive to ordinary rule as to choose one.”
“Perhaps he has conscientious scruples founded
on his own unfitness,” said Dorothea, who was
interesting herself in finding a favorable explanation.
“Because the law and medicine should be very
serious professions to undertake, should they not?
People’s lives and fortunes depend on them.”
“Doubtless; but I fear that my young relative
Will Ladislaw is chiefly determined in his aversion
to these callings by a dislike to steady application,
and to that kind of acquirement which is needful instrumentally,
but is not charming or immediately inviting to self-indulgent
taste. I have insisted to him on what Aristotle
has stated with admirable brevity, that for the achievement
of any work regarded as an end there must be a prior
exercise of many energies or acquired facilities of
a secondary order, demanding patience. I have
pointed to my own manuscript volumes, which represent
the toil of years preparatory to a work not yet accomplished.
But in vain. To careful reasoning of this kind
he replies by calling himself Pegasus, and every form
of prescribed work `harness.’”
Celia laughed. She was surprised to find that
Mr. Casaubon could say something quite amusing.
“Well, you know, he may turn out a Byron, a
Chatterton, a Churchill—that sort of thing—there’s
no telling,” said Mr. Brooke. “Shall
you let him go to Italy, or wherever else he wants
to go?”
“Yes; I have agreed to furnish him with moderate
supplies for a year or so; he asks no more.
I shall let him be tried by the test of freedom.”
“That is very kind of you,” said Dorothea,
looking up at Mr. Casaubon with delight. “It
is noble. After all, people may really have
in them some vocation which is not quite plain to themselves,
may they not? They may seem idle and weak because
they are growing. We should be very patient with
each other, I think.”
“I suppose it is being engaged to be married
that has made you think patience good,” said
Celia, as soon as she and Dorothea were alone together,
taking off their wrappings.
“You mean that I am very impatient, Celia.”
“Yes; when people don’t do and say just
what you like.” Celia had become less afraid
of “saying things” to Dorothea since this
engagement: cleverness seemed to her more pitiable
than ever.
“He had catched a great
cold, had he had no other clothes
to wear than the skin
of a bear not yet killed.”—FULLER.
