"Now, sir, if you can oblige me again; I will release the lady-wife."
So Mr. Casaubon's patience held out further, and when after all it
turned out that the head of Saint Thomas Aquinas would be more perfect
if another sitting could be had, it was granted for the morrow. On the
morrow Santa Clara too was retouched more than once. The result of all
was so far from displeasing to Mr. Casaubon, that he arranged for the
purchase of the picture in which Saint Thomas Aquinas sat among the
doctors of the Church in a disputation too abstract to be represented,
but listened to with more or less attention by an audience above. The
Santa Clara, which was spoken of in the second place, Naumann declared
himself to be dissatisfied with--he could not, in conscience, engage
to make a worthy picture of it; so about the Santa Clara the
arrangement was conditional.
I will not dwell on Naumann's jokes at the expense of Mr. Casaubon that
evening, or on his dithyrambs about Dorothea's charm, in all which Will
joined, but with a difference. No sooner did Naumann mention any
detail of Dorothea's beauty, than Will got exasperated at his
presumption: there was grossness in his choice of the most ordinary
words, and what business had he to talk of her lips? She was not a
woman to be spoken of as other women were. Will could not say just
what he thought, but he became irritable. And yet, when after some
resistance he had consented to take the Casaubons to his friend's
studio, he had been allured by the gratification of his pride in being
the person who could grant Naumann such an opportunity of studying her
loveliness--or rather her divineness, for the ordinary phrases which
might apply to mere bodily prettiness were not applicable to her.
(Certainly all Tipton and its neighborhood, as well as Dorothea
herself, would have been surprised at her beauty being made so much of.
In that part of the world Miss Brooke had been only a "fine young
woman.")
"Oblige me by letting the subject drop, Naumann. Mrs. Casaubon is not
to be talked of as if she were a model," said Will. Naumann stared at
him.
"Schon! I will talk of my Aquinas. The head is not a bad type, after
all. I dare say the great scholastic himself would have been flattered
to have his portrait asked for. Nothing like these starchy doctors for
vanity! It was as I thought: he cared much less for her portrait than
his own."
"He's a cursed white-blooded pedantic coxcomb," said Will, with
gnashing impetuosity. His obligations to Mr. Casaubon were not known
to his hearer, but Will himself was thinking of them, and wishing that
he could discharge them all by a check.